Creative Writing: A Hunter's Tale

As Hunter watched as she drove away Hunter thought about how long this camp would take. He turned around and saw 3 of his best friends.

“After defeating the Cyclops Polyphemus, my men grew exhausted. They grew thirsty from rowing under the beating hot sun. Sweat dripped down their heads and the ship’s deck grew moist from the mix of the salty, seawater and sweat. We stopped by on a nearby island.

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

I let him get close. I let him do this. But there would be no more of that. I would pick up the pieces of the battle the same way I was picking up the pieces of my family. I didn't want him to be close to me anymore, I didn't want his body overpowering my own. He had no right to hold his height over me, to throw himself around so carelessly. He had knocked me over one time too many and I had no problem letting him

She walked down the darkened corridor, her heels clicking against the smooth marble. Shadows danced across the tall walls, the orange flames from the iron metal torches formed various shapes across

After John harnessed the team to the wagon, he, Charity, and Charles loaded Uriah into it. She and Charles then headed to town with him. She left John and Martha Jane to watch over the younger children, with strict orders that they had all better be on their best behavior until her return. John was nearly twelve; she figured he ought to be capable of watching the little ones.

“You hit his leg. You need to work on your aim.” He turned toward the trail the gunmen had taken. Now that he’d thanked her, he could get on his way. What was he waiting for? His job was to find a murderer.

“Ha-ha! You’re it!” yelled Hunter as he got further away from me. I then ran full speed at him.

Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn’t here acting as a buffer.

“You gonna make me go there, huh?” One dark eyebrow rose, lifting the first of many silver piercings on the hunter’s body, this one, a hoop in his left brow, and as if he expected further arguing, he planted his boots apart and cranked his neck forward. “I said. I’ll sort it.” The words forced through clenched teeth, causing the cone Labrets to jut out from his bottom lip, resembling a bulldog’s overbite.

When the bell in the clock tower rang four times, the Hunter pushed the saloon’s swinging doors open and stepped inside.

“What? I was just here a week ago, what changed?” I hear two guards approaching, and my heart stops. I wedge myself closer against the wall, desperately trying to stay out of sight. I can see nothing, only

Hunter said nothing as he saw the flyer land in front of his feet, he picked up and quickly shoved it in his pocket, planning to look at it later. He continued to ignore the taunts as he cleaned around them, refusing to let them see the pain they caused him to feel. He was dismissed once his step-father inspected his cleaning and grunted it's acceptability.

“I was only going to ask if you’re wanted to go for one last trip,” Hunter said looking at him, “I can only promise it won’t be boring and the chances are things may try to kill us.”

What seemed like mere seconds later, cops busted through the door, showering splinters of wood through the threshold. Their gun were trained on me but I stood there, as still as the lifeless bodies at my feet. The bloody knife I held in my hand was a testimony to the crimes that had been committed, whose victims lay at my feet.