Short Story 

‘Choose one,’ he said, an alarming serenity to his voice that sort to send me off my solid ground and crashing into his vitriolic maze of conniving stew. 
I hesitated. In his hand he held five feathers and I knew to choose the wrong one would lead to terrible things for me as it had for poor old Ned. 

‘Take one,’ he said, a touch of menace now lacing his tone.

I drew back. 

His look told me, screamed at me, to get out of there as quickly as I could and yet, bizarrely, an easy peace had begun to fall upon me. Whether the fear of being in front of such a dreadful man has just driven me to forget my senses I know not, but now I brazenly stepped forward and seized a feather. 

He looked at the feather, then to me, then back to the feather, a look of mad astonishment across his face. 

‘You’ve chosen the longest feather,!’ he spluttered, his ease of control suddenly evaporating. 

I looked at him, smiling. He just turned and ran. 

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