The Hunters

I have written a story that disturbs even me. The surreal burst of inspiration that gave it life still remains unexplained. I realize that this is a strange way to start a writing career and there may be repercussions. Either it's good that I get it out of the way now while I'm young or I could wait until I'm old to release it. Either way my public opinion may suffer. But whatever, you're always going to piss of someone I guess.

What I want the reader to accomplish from by reading this little story is to understand insanity. From that may he or she see the world a little differently. I do not condone the acts of violence in the story nor do I feel that the characters actions are justified; however some of the ideology presented happens to be my own. I feel the line between the fiction and the fact are presented obviously.

. Intolerance is a pitiful part of our society and the ignorance that drives it cannot seem to go away. No matter how you see the world weather it be clear or distorted is still one's own world view, right or wrong live and let live I say. Although the actions of the characters are somewhat of a wake up call to the world that sanctity is a joke and life is too great to waste on a system that demands servitude. One may hate the world but his hatred does not justify the senseless destruction of others, one's power should stay in his own mind (until it is threatened) and that is infinitely more powerful than any weapon. Weather he meant to or not this was one of a few things I learned from my friend.

And that is my little disclaimer, may your opinion stand.

Dedicated to Matt Pifher

The man who taught me to balance my hate

The Hunters

The two came out of hiding. As they walked towards their latest kill there was a sense of pride, accomplishment if you will. Standing within a silence that could have swallowed the moment drifted through their consciousness. Nothing seemed to surface in the hunters or the world which had closed in on itself with the newly departed life. The world reacted to the shot with a remorseful sleep. They stood over the body and Andrew reminisced; his childhood and the first time his father took him deer hunting.

He remembered asking his father what a deer was and he'll never forget the profile that his father shared with him;

"A deer is a weaker animal; we hunt them so they don't get to be a problem. They multiply very quickly you see and since the world has no real purpose for them they need to be controlled." This made sense to him as all things his father told him did. "The world belongs to us.' he used to say.

He loved his father who was a tall and muscular man. He had thinning hair and a tense face that seemed like a smile would leave it shattered. Yet the manner in which he lived did not seem tense or anxious. Every move that he made was thought out and meticulous. In the way he washed dishes, drove walked and spoke it was like there was nothing involuntary or feeble about him. His father owned nearly nothing with the exception of three guns, a truck and the scattered contents of the house. The house was not a dump, his father kept it well maintained both on the inside and out.