The Hunt (For Remembrance Day)
The stag lifted its head, suddenly alert, tensed to run but unsure. There had been a sound. The slightest cracking. The smallest snapping sending the minutest disturbance through the forest upsetting the natural harmony. Then dipping its head, turning sharply, rear legs pushing and away as the crossbow bolt punctuated the vacated space to thump, vibrating, into the ancient oak tree. The mist rising surreally from the ground, damp grey, all encompassing, born out of the transition from night to dawn and swallowing the bolting animal saving it from certain doom. “Too slow Billy, you're too slow.” This is Uncle Jack, a tall wiry man with long black hair tied into a ponytail, speaking in a harsh whisper as he relaxed his grip on his crossbow. “Why do you not listen? I’ve told you before aim and shoot. One motion, aim and shoot. The stag hears the forest Billy. Feels the air Billy, the ever present familiar smells. If it senses any change, even the slightest change Billy, then the mom