Hunting for a Trophy - Pt. I
Alllrighty.
*Cracks Knuckles*
I came up with this a few years’ back. In… college? I honestly can’t remember. I wish that I could.
Originally, I wanted to write something totally outside of my wheelhouse. That is, of course, space or fantasy-related novels and videogame writing. Furthermore, I stink at writing short pieces. I suck at them. From them being a slice-of-life of some crazy person to a thoughtful piece that I can’t seem to flesh out in a short space - that’s my struggle.
As such, this story became practicing ground that I thought I wanted. The intentions here were to do two goals: write a contemporary literature story and practice how to take a simple idea and flesh it out.
You know, as I just mentioned above.
It’s about a young man who is really struggling to fill his hunting tag. The clock on the season ticks to a close. He feels that he is behind when compared to his dad; he wants to kill a deer. Impress him, like any son does! He wants to show that he can, in fact, perform the task - as beautiful as one is - and present it to dad as food for their family’s winter stock. After coming home empty handed several times before, he tries one more time, taking place in a forest outside of Aberdeen, Scotland.
Do I consider it my best bit of writing? No, not quite. What this IS is the most polished version. I might have sat down and decided to brainstorm this more. Flesh it out. Maybe more thoughtful themes? Deeper character growth? More plot?
All three? Yes!
So with that said, I do hope that you like reading this! Credit to Paige Spear for developmental editing, my friend Chris for connecting me with her, and my friend Lisa. They all pointed out the many dumb and hilarious flaws in the earlier manuscript.
Hunting for a Trophy
A Short Story, by Matthew Birdzell
Hunting Fiction - Part I
Only four days remained before the season ended, and he knew he had to find that stag. Thomas’s stomach leaped with excitement and fast walked once he saw the tree line, despite his rucksack. When his dad brought home his third deer last year this time, and Thomas’s hands were still empty, his stomach felt even emptier. He was going to bring home his first tag. Thomas hoped to outdo his old man’s previous kill; he already fancied the expression of eyes that flew open. He, his parents, and sister would have hearty venison for at least the winter. Also, he planned to have its head mounted, which he had never paid for before. His dad had enough of them hanging on living room walls that he could buy a new fifth wheel if he sold them.
Thomas’s chest heaved. The hunting backpack held just a canteen of hot apple cider and some strawberry granola bars. Yet it weighed heavier than usual. Beads of sweat were already forming under his moisture-wicking shirt. And then there was carrying any resulting meat. It’d be worth it; the stag he would be absolutely glorious.
He reached the tree line. Dense oaks stood in a round bulge. A public notice sign greeted him. “Officially reopened to the public as of the 26th of August 2021. Observe and follow all firearm safety laws. Adhere to wildlife conservation laws”.
A smile drew across Thomas’s lips, but he didn’t admire the view for long. The end of August was also the end of Stag season Now that it had reopened, he saw several groups of hunters had apparently filled the parking spaces before midmorning. The ground seemed to be teeming with more of them than game. He pulled the rectangular bolt back to expose the top bullet and load it into the chamber. It was well-oiled, sliding back easily with a satisfying triplet of clacks. He nestled the stock against his left shoulder and placed his finger above the trigger. Thomas stepped into the tree line. Barrel pointed low, he stepped lightly for a few minutes. A few dark, shamrock-shaped leaves crunched under his boots. There was no breeze brushing against his fingers. Leaves sprouted on every tree and littered the ground. Moss extended their coverage on tree trunks. All that cut through the quietness were a few chirps. Hibernation season ending must have brought the local native birds. Echoes of goldfinches calling to one another sounded high in the canopy. None were visible to him. His father was always better at bird calling. Once he got a finch to land on a branch pretty close by. He snapped a picture with his Google Pixel before it flew off.
The forest’s palette of brown and yellow made Thomas squint. Perfect colors for animals to camouflage themselves with. He kept his pacing slow. He also looked at the leftward angle of sun rays as they gently illuminated more foliage.
What seemed like a few minutes later, leaves broke underweight up ahead. Thomas paused by the nearest oak and lowered his barrel. As still as a tiger homing in on its prey he listened. One… two... one… two. Could be an animal. Maybe four steps blended into two, he thought. He waited for more. And he was rewarded a moment later, however, with an audible groan. An exhale of human breath.
Okay, definitely a person, he thought. Thomas was about to get really excited. He kept the rifle lowered and approached the source. Sitting against a thick fallen tree trunk was a fellow hunter. He wore a drab green jacket and a beret hat. Didn’t entirely blend in.
“Hello, sir”, Thomas said. “Stags outran you?”
“‘Ello there, lad,” he spoke in a older, smooth tone. “Aye, I hope you’ve had more luck.”
Thomas shook his head. “Just starting my search.”
The man, sporting a beard, panted. He must have been going for ages. He licked his lips. “Could ye spare a drop or two?”
“Sure. Ran out already?” Thomas thumbed his rifle’s safety and set it down. He found his canteen in his rucksack, then unscrewed the cap.
The older gentleman nodded. “Drank half of it on the drive here. Half of it walking. There’s a big stag ‘bout seventy yards thata way,” he pointed northeast.
“Woah,” Thomas pursed his lips. I’ll ask if I can help track it. “If you have a canteen, I’ll pour you some.”
Thomas took the man’s canteen – black with lots of scratches – and tipped his own. Water flowed down, a little missing and splashing onto his fingers. He noticed the man looking out into the trees.
“Here you go.” Thomas screwed the lid back on and handed it over.
“Thank you, lad.” His Adam’s apple moved up and down. He leaned his head back against the tree and sighed, his eyes closing from exertion.
Poor bugger, Thomas thought.
He took a few large swigs. Then he peered at Thomas's water bottle again, "A wee bit more there, lad?" he asked, gesturing toward the bottle. “Sorry to trouble you.”
Thomas answered with eyebrows raised. This time he handed the man his canteen. “Save half for me. You should bring a second bottle next time.”
Thomas received a frown from that. “There’s a good lad.” He returned the bottle. Water seeped down the hunter’s neck.
“Say, need a hand in the hunt?” Thomas asked. The older Scot’s breathing was more contained. He stood up but remained leaning on the log.
“Possibly. You’ve the endurance. I’ve hunted in the surrounding areas for years. Only reason that I bought home food was by teaming up with.”
Thomas nodded. “Well, yeah. Especially if we spot a large pointed one.”
Well, whaddya know? He thought. Sometimes these animals weighed as much as two-and-a-half full-grown men. Any arguments about shares of meat would be left here for the meantime.
The gent drew a long breath and then exhaled satisfactorily. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Go find the big one I saw over yonder. “
“If I’m quick enough. Those buggers are faster than lightning.
“And you’ve gotta be quicker”. He slipped his canteen into his carry sack, then picked up his rifle. With a grin, he started off again.
Hopefully, he gets what he wants and doesn’t collapse, Thomas thought. He repacked what remained of his water. Sipping it stretched it out maybe an hour and a half. From previous hunts, he knew he could last beyond that.
He scanned the trees ahead. Fallen ones were spaced out here and there. One was shaped like a deer; even had branches pointing up like antlers. But no. He also looked for hoof imprints. Easiest method to find a trail. As he chose a different direction from the other hunter, they ought not to bump into each other following the same beast. Would be rather coincidental if they did. And still would dismiss help. How typical… those older Scotsmen. Thus, he focused on the path ahead. Well, one he hadn’t found hoofs on yet. He scooted a pile of yellow leaves apart, quietly, hand steadying him on his rifle’s metal grip.
Nothing. Zilch.
Thomas clenched his jaw. He stood and changed course into a wide arch, using a nearby log as the pivot point. Thick rays of light had brightened up the area. Layers of jacket, pants, and shirt toasted him. No pausing to shed those now; he might lose again. Continuing led him to a patch of open grass.
Hold your horses, what’s that there?
He squinted. Then lightly hovered a finger over what barely resembled an outline. Was the size of his hand. The sight remained hard to make out and a bit blurry. Through his binoculars, though... not at all. He checked it out.
Aha.
Now he took even slower steps. He set his rifle back into his left shoulder’s crevice. His finger stayed off the trigger and its safety lever was still thumbed back. As if imitating a lion, he stepped lightly and as silently as possible. A large splotch of brown held still. It grazed in the center point of three trees.
Hopefully, the gent hasn’t spotted it either.
Standing still as a possible, he closed his right eye.
Golly! He could fill half of his pickup truck with it. Serious amounts of meat on its torso. Thick tan mane covered its chest. Its antlers were spread wide. An underbelly of dark brown protected it. What an absolute beauty! And that was just through a scope. It was a male.
The stag started to move toward what looked like the edge of a slope. It resumed grazing. He thumbed the safety forward to Fire. Thomas aimed crosshairs just below the neck. His trigger finger moved to its crescent-shaped concave. Three slow breaths he watched it. Each heartbeat like a thump of a hoof.
He then fired. A round launched out the barrel, the sound rang in his ear and shoved the stock into his shoulder. A snap of a moment followed with an animalistic cry. It stumbled and tried to haul itself up. Yet its front end collapsed, and its cry went silent about the trees. Thomas didn’t smile, at first. If it tumbled too heavily, the meat got bruised. Couldn’t make it last if it happened. Golly, I hope I don’t need to slit a throat, he thought with a concerned look.