The Hunt

April 7, 2013
“It’s too damn cold to be out today,” whined Ed.

“Shut up. Everyday is a good day for hunting,” said Jim. White crystals danced from the sky. They jitterbugged from clouds and trees eventually congregating in throngs on the men’s shoulders.

“Sh. I see one,” whispered Jim, stiffening under the bleach-white snow.

“Aim for the head,” replied Ed.

A moment of silence choked the air in which the wind’s song ceased and the flakes froze mid-waltz. Neither man moved, not a single syllable escaped their chapped lips.


A gaggle of geese flew from behind the cover of a pine tree. The fallen creature painted the once white landscape. Swirls of red seeped from this Picasso. Slowly, the men stood up and sauntered to their prize. Upon reaching the carcass, they slumped down to study it. They noticed the bullet had gone right through the child’s forehead. The little boy lay strung out on the bank of snow: a faint smile on his face and a tightly packed snowball in his hand.

“Everyday is a good day for hunting,” mumbled Jim.

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