The faun was dying. Even from 300 yards away, the man could
see the blood oozing down its side. He lowered the gun and its scope and shook
his head. He had been born a hunter. Many families in the area depended on the
odd stag, salted and cured, to wait out the worst of the winter months. But
only at their most desperate would they shoot a faun (better to let it fat
until early fall) and no one with his respect would ever leave a kill to
wander, injured and dying. He put his gun back to his shoulder and took careful
aim.
An explosion knocked the man onto his back in the grass and
sent his shot wild in the air. His ears rang. He rolled onto his knees,
clutching his hands to his hand, his ears ringing, his eyes squinted shut with
pain. When he tried to stand, the blood rushed from his head and he passed out.
Hours later when he finally woke, the sun was setting into the clouds with fire
and blood. For as far as he could see, the grass had flattened away from the
spot where the faun had stood. The man rolled painfully to his knees, then,
using the gun as a crutch, managed to get to his feet. He limped back to his
truck and drove away.
