....I thought I'd tell about a nine year old and a tent, but this shallow paper on the box lid in the Gun Room caught my eyes.
There's a lot of strange scraps. Never thought I'd get there- with a paper history somehow traced to a more substancial life. Not my scraps.
They said people who give a damn leave a history of work done, thrown off the shoulder like it twer nothing, no cost at all. But my scraps hurt, and were never enough.
I heard there was no use, because I was a wordsmith.
Reality could be bent to favor.
What an idea.
Here's an idea- these scraps, they didn't come as technique. All this time, all these blunders and missteps, and I could say'm ampsangeianqrom domdre? What's the use in Wooglinian? I'll just hide it all with word craft. No one will be the wiser. I can defeat truth, the worm in the mud, and the light from where were you when I needed you Stars?
Yep.
So, here from over ten years past, a single paper from a longer story long gone now; (printed out my usual way, by hand.)
...I bag my first Buck, and Annoy the Neighbors
Naturally, darkness was complete by the time we drove down and began tracking. We thought it would be easy in the snow. There was a trail of blood. She fooled us. We'd get close and she'd leave the thicket she'd found, sneaking away without us hearing a thing. We followed her along the watercourse until midnight. I bit back my told-you-so, expecting Nick would admit a grudging respect for the problems that can occur with a head shot animal. He said nothing about it.
"See you in the morning. We'll try again when she's stiff and sore from laying in the cold all night."
OK, I thought, he's tired; in the morning he'll admit I was right.
It was a bright, warm day. It was the same story as the night before; she kept moving. We went in circles, until she finally hopped the fence into a large private ranch. Nick had enough.
He said. "Screw the B--. I'm through."
'She'll stave to death." I said.
"That's true. Nothing we can do about it."
We told some neighbors what happened. They lived on the main deer route and had a tree stand. I hoped they'd spot her and take care of our mess. The woman, a slender, attractive brunette, was not disturbed at all by our news. I watched her closely as Nick explained what had happened, but there was no disapproval on her face. In fact, she flirted with Nick. I was just the trailer renter, not landed gentry, and didn't count more than a polite glance.
I asked a gal at K-Mart about head shots. She had 30 years experience in retail hunting and fishing and was a hunter.
"Head shots are great". She said, nodding her head. 'Doesn't ruin the meat and drops the deer instantly."
I told her about the wounded Doe.
"It happens. A chest shot deer sometimes escapes. It can happen with any shot. I will say that to take a head shot you should be certain of your range and be a good shot."
"My friend was a good shot and was certain of his range."
She said nothing to this, but went on with her philosophy. "The one shot I never take is a neck shot."
"Because the spine curls away from the meat of the neck, and you can't be sure of a hit through the hair."
"That's right. And she might get away. I hate to see an animal suffer."
Two weeks later Nick took another head shot. This one dumped flat on the ground. His wife wanted to leave immediately for the party they were attending in the evening. He figured a couple hours lying there wouldn't hurt anything. When he got back and approached the animal, it tried to get up. He finished the job with his nine millimeter.
I read books. I recall a basic fundemental, much more important than the correct position on the bench, was to examine and verify the kill.
Where does it say in the Book of Life that everyone lives by the same morality, makes the same decisions, believes the same things? At worst, Nick inflicted suffering-
manuscript lost.
munk
There's a lot of strange scraps. Never thought I'd get there- with a paper history somehow traced to a more substancial life. Not my scraps.
They said people who give a damn leave a history of work done, thrown off the shoulder like it twer nothing, no cost at all. But my scraps hurt, and were never enough.
I heard there was no use, because I was a wordsmith.
Reality could be bent to favor.
What an idea.
Here's an idea- these scraps, they didn't come as technique. All this time, all these blunders and missteps, and I could say'm ampsangeianqrom domdre? What's the use in Wooglinian? I'll just hide it all with word craft. No one will be the wiser. I can defeat truth, the worm in the mud, and the light from where were you when I needed you Stars?
Yep.
So, here from over ten years past, a single paper from a longer story long gone now; (printed out my usual way, by hand.)
...I bag my first Buck, and Annoy the Neighbors
Naturally, darkness was complete by the time we drove down and began tracking. We thought it would be easy in the snow. There was a trail of blood. She fooled us. We'd get close and she'd leave the thicket she'd found, sneaking away without us hearing a thing. We followed her along the watercourse until midnight. I bit back my told-you-so, expecting Nick would admit a grudging respect for the problems that can occur with a head shot animal. He said nothing about it.
"See you in the morning. We'll try again when she's stiff and sore from laying in the cold all night."
OK, I thought, he's tired; in the morning he'll admit I was right.
It was a bright, warm day. It was the same story as the night before; she kept moving. We went in circles, until she finally hopped the fence into a large private ranch. Nick had enough.
He said. "Screw the B--. I'm through."
'She'll stave to death." I said.
"That's true. Nothing we can do about it."
We told some neighbors what happened. They lived on the main deer route and had a tree stand. I hoped they'd spot her and take care of our mess. The woman, a slender, attractive brunette, was not disturbed at all by our news. I watched her closely as Nick explained what had happened, but there was no disapproval on her face. In fact, she flirted with Nick. I was just the trailer renter, not landed gentry, and didn't count more than a polite glance.
I asked a gal at K-Mart about head shots. She had 30 years experience in retail hunting and fishing and was a hunter.
"Head shots are great". She said, nodding her head. 'Doesn't ruin the meat and drops the deer instantly."
I told her about the wounded Doe.
"It happens. A chest shot deer sometimes escapes. It can happen with any shot. I will say that to take a head shot you should be certain of your range and be a good shot."
"My friend was a good shot and was certain of his range."
She said nothing to this, but went on with her philosophy. "The one shot I never take is a neck shot."
"Because the spine curls away from the meat of the neck, and you can't be sure of a hit through the hair."
"That's right. And she might get away. I hate to see an animal suffer."
Two weeks later Nick took another head shot. This one dumped flat on the ground. His wife wanted to leave immediately for the party they were attending in the evening. He figured a couple hours lying there wouldn't hurt anything. When he got back and approached the animal, it tried to get up. He finished the job with his nine millimeter.
I read books. I recall a basic fundemental, much more important than the correct position on the bench, was to examine and verify the kill.
Where does it say in the Book of Life that everyone lives by the same morality, makes the same decisions, believes the same things? At worst, Nick inflicted suffering-
manuscript lost.
munk
