The Hunter

The Hunter The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of obscurity, was clear today. The floor of the dale is flat and scattered with large boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy plants and an imponderable, stillness that follows sins of wilful nonappearance. Was here, with my dog Stella, to look for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it in the head with my 22 calibre rifle; still convulsing when I came up to it, kicked it to death with the rifle butt and saw it was not a gregarious mammal. Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats looking at me from every boulder and holes in the ground. I moved backwards didn’t dare turn my back, but they came closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood her ground defending me till I could get up on the road of cowardice yet again. I shot into the melee of rats till I had no bullets left, but I could not save my dog; fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled the ravine packed with phobias, odium and fear of the indefinite; one day I will be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear the valley and built a temple to purity.