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Wee, Wicked Whispers; Collected Short Stories: 2007-2008
Hunted Is The Hunter
Chapter 5 Page 7
Wee, Wicked Whispers; Collected Short Stories: 2007-2008
Hunted Is The Hunter
Chapter 5 Page 7
Through the magnified perspective of his sights, the hunter's vision lingers on the scene of his kill, betrayed only by the marker of a man's sleeping form, motionless and full of dreams in the distance. The hunter watches for rising ribs or tossing head, but the other remains still.
The sly hunter knows that no man could withstand a hot-loaded 30-06 slug with a full brass jacket. Upon passing through the cavity of a human chest, the hunter guesses every major organ must explode inside the victim. The term 'hemorrhage' could not adequately describe the bloodletting of such trauma. The man must be dead, the hunter decides.
As the sun disappears mournfully from the sky, its lone, sage eye rolling in sick, agonized disgust, the hunter disassembles his weapon, stirs from his long stillness, smoothes away all evidence of his presence, and then he creeps through the woods, expertly obfuscating his passage as he goes. Tonight, he knows from careful study of his thermometer and barometer, a torrential rain would drown the land and erase any slightest evidence he might have inadvertently left behind.
Desperate before the rain, therefore, the butterfly had come to the meadow to feed upon its wildflowers, the sparrow had come to feed upon the butterflies, the deer had come to feed upon the clover, and the other had come to feed upon the deer. Then, hidden in a deeper shadow, driven by a baser need, the hunter had come to feed upon the other.
Before midnight crosses the forest, the hunter finds his truck and then, inside the truck, he finds the interstate. The interstate carries him home… in a manner of speaking. For, it is not his home, but the other's home.
The sly hunter knows that no man could withstand a hot-loaded 30-06 slug with a full brass jacket. Upon passing through the cavity of a human chest, the hunter guesses every major organ must explode inside the victim. The term 'hemorrhage' could not adequately describe the bloodletting of such trauma. The man must be dead, the hunter decides.
As the sun disappears mournfully from the sky, its lone, sage eye rolling in sick, agonized disgust, the hunter disassembles his weapon, stirs from his long stillness, smoothes away all evidence of his presence, and then he creeps through the woods, expertly obfuscating his passage as he goes. Tonight, he knows from careful study of his thermometer and barometer, a torrential rain would drown the land and erase any slightest evidence he might have inadvertently left behind.
Desperate before the rain, therefore, the butterfly had come to the meadow to feed upon its wildflowers, the sparrow had come to feed upon the butterflies, the deer had come to feed upon the clover, and the other had come to feed upon the deer. Then, hidden in a deeper shadow, driven by a baser need, the hunter had come to feed upon the other.
Before midnight crosses the forest, the hunter finds his truck and then, inside the truck, he finds the interstate. The interstate carries him home… in a manner of speaking. For, it is not his home, but the other's home.
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