The Windmill Wails

Fiction in a Nutshell October 2020

He stared through the cabernet, the afternoon’s last flight of tasting. Clouds punctuated the sky. Sunlight carved shadows. A rusted windmill decorated the vineyard. Wind snagged its blades; an inhuman wail screeched out. Screaming metal cast him back. Clearing the hut’s front, he found a woman lying next to the remains of her AK 47, thrashing, reaching below her waist, feeling desperately for her legs. All she touched were spurting stumps and tangled tendons and muscle. Her wailing cascaded upwards, beyond any other agonies. What he did next became his most memorable agony. The windmill wailed.