Death in a Canadian Prarie

Somewhere in Southern Canada, a boy sat motionless in the tall grass of a prairie nearby his home. His father’s bolt-action Winchester rifle lay in front of him, loaded with bullets of high-velocity. For Jonathon Smith, 11 years of age, this was his first hunting trip where he had gone, solo. His mother had been embittered with his father’s choice to allow him outside, when there was so much work to be done around the house and dinner was on the oven. His father’s argument delved into the adventures a boy must take, as he enters manhood. Regardless of the validity of such an argument, Jonathon Swift fully intended on venturing out with his father’s rifle.

It wasn’t as if Jonathon wasn’t a good shot with his father’s rifle, he had actually practiced with it plenty, but only on pop cans and the like, unless his father was there to assist him. The safety, which was adjustable on three levels, was set to fire.

Far off on his scope, Jonathon was startled by the way he was able to find life way out in the middle of nowhere, without doing so much as walking out and setting up the rifle, as it was pointed towards tall grass. He would succeed and would refuse himself the luxury of giving up. It was the night to show his Dad up, to quintessentially prove his manhood.

The fox he had in his scope seemed to stir a little, but his vision was ultimately skewed, by the tall grass which protruded upon the range he had. It must only be thirty feet away, he thought, the presence of the little creature rolling around filling him with a bit of insolence, as his finger took to the trigger impatiently. He finally came to terms with the situation at hand and tried to better his aim on the fox. It’s bushy tail was vague. The fox was a nomad, blurred and confusing, in front of the lush growth, the tall grass persuading his attention, an over-bearing distraction amongst the rambling thoughts that finally fell to focus. The trigger kind of hesitated, snapping finally from his calloused pointer finger, the bullet tempted with velocity, shot through the air quickly and hit its mark.

A murmur of a growl issued from the fox after following the gunshot’s loud report, a bit of a shock to Jonathon. It sounded more like a cry than anything he had ever hunted before. It was the kind of cry some creature from a horror movie might emit. It was loud and miserable. The fox doubled over, taking to the ground. The dirt ruffled about in the air and he assumed his mark to be hit. Some shot, he thought aloud.

His mother was out the door in short order, wondering what all the fuss was about. She asked, yelling against the stirring weather which blew her bangs lightly to the side, a woman of subtle inner beauty, an unfocused kind of beauty which is better to have rather than to have none at all. Her face was light and brilliant, when Jonathon looked over at her.

“Mamma, I got a kill. A good sized fox.” said Jonathon.

“Julia, come on in! Supper’s ready.” said his mother.

Julia, whom had been out playing for a long time, went without a response. After packing the Winchester back into it’s case, Jonathon walked inside proudly. His family wasn’t the type to use their kill to it’s full potential. They’d rather it either decompose or be left to the wild. Some adaptation, store-bought meat fresh off the oven, covered the plates that lay on the table.

The dinner was refreshing, aside from the fact that they were all a tad bit worried about Julia. “Where could she be?” asked his mother. “Johnny, please go out and look for her.”

As he went outside, he had to check on that fox. As he approached the previously bush-tailed creature, it’s becoming figure translated into that of a little girls’. Jonathon had murdered his own sister.