Monday August 22nd, 2011

The exercise:

Write a little something about: the hunter.

Harvesting for our local orders kept us busy most of the morning, but that was mainly the fault of the beans - those things take forever to pick.

Jeez, September sure is getting close all of a sudden, isn't it?

Mine:

Puffing a cigar, he studies the heads affixed to his study walls. From lions to tigers to bears, he's bagged them all. There's even a rhino head in the hall. Fingering the scar on his right side, he ponders that close call.

They're just trophies, nothing more, nothing less. He's claimed victory in all those games of survival chess, leaving his defeated foes a bloody mess. His collection cannot fail to impress.

And yet there is a feeling, he must admit, that his heart will rarely emit. It's not, exactly, that he gets upset when he considers all those animal obits. No, he won't label it, but I submit that he is haunted by regret.

3 Comments:

Unknown said...

The hunter, look what he's done; look at the heads that he's won.
The hunter, gracefully fronts with a gun; gracefully stalks the prey on the run.
The hunter, he shoots while it runs; he shoots what's a fawn.
The hunter, he knows what he's done; he loads the truck and he's gone

Marc said...

Unknown - I really enjoyed the rhythm of your poem, and I think that's a great ending couplet.

Ruby said...

Rounding up all his men. Although his name is Hunter Bill he prefers to work in four (just to be safe). One day he put a gun up to my face, the day was so hot it burnt my skin, which is why I have that scar. From then on, we were rivals until we die.