Hunt

Today was - very, very, exhausting.
More on that later, now on to a piece of poor fiction I've had on my mind for some time.
Enjoy, R&R kthx.

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I hunt.

I love to hunt.

I love to hunt my quarry, to watch it scurry furtively, run madly away, and fail.

I relish the smell of blood in the cold crisp morning air when that scent hangs heavy with the dew.

On mornings such as this, the time is ripe for the hunt. The first rays of the sun illuminate my surroundings, bright enough for me to see, but not bright enough for the quarry to perceive. I breathe in, the air rushing into my lungs with its cold touch, warming me from the inside out.

I pad silently across the terrain, silent, as a good hunter should be. Any more sound would send quarry scuttling back into the holes they came from. I for one wanted to catch them - loud, in the open, the exhilarating thumpa-thump of its feet as it runs for its life - the shriek, the scream, and the inevitable crash.

A soft rustle.

Directly behind me.

Pricking up my ears, I whip around with surprising elasticity, and lunging forward towards my prey. He is but meters from my reach. I pull out my weapons and my mind clouds and narrows - my attention wavers not, my senses keen, my objective the quarry.

The hunt is on; the colours of tall wooden pillars on my either side blur into motion, I and feel hear naught but the rush of the wind and the sounds of feet, I smell the perspiration and tiring of the quarry and relish it - I can taste succulent blood yet.

Already the quarry is slowing; already he is tiring; and already I am disappointed, for I had hoped for a greater game. Yet I hunt not for sport, and thus continue restless pursuit, savouring every instant of the chase, following my quarry through mazes of wood and ground. I am pleasantly surprised, the quarry stumbles and takes direct hits from me, but recovers, ever going forward, trailing spots of shiny red blood.

Though the quarry be forced into a corner, he is brave yet; he attempts to fake and evade his grasp, but death is already written on his face, and he reluctantly accepts it as I hand it to him as his prize, the sweet embrace of death, the inevitable climax of the hunt, the resounding clash of the cymbals.




I pad over to my winnings, in a game I almost always win. I look smilingly upon the fallen prey, its blood pooling about it like a morbid rain-puddle, with its splatttered scarlet splatches positioned decoratively around it. A tingle of excitement runs yet down the length of my spine, my eyes dance with a glint of light about them, and my tail slowly curves from delight.





A middle-aged housewife sits in her comfortable plaid sofa, watching her favourite soap. She happens to glance around, shrieks and practically acheives a new high-jump record for her age group. "Honey!" she hollers.

The gray cat slowly pads over to her with a half-mangled mouse in its jaws, dripping rodent-blood over the neatly carpeted floor, elicting another set of screams. The cat's mouth, for a brief moment, twists into a lopsided grin, causing the dead mouse to twitch involuntarily.

"The bloody cat's got a mouse again!"