During my junior year of college I read some stories that had been submitted for a "Write Like Ernest Hemingway" contest. I was intrigued by the concept and decided to write one for myself. It took me awhile to find it, but here we go!
The trees were tall and the leaves were loud. Most of the leaves were on the ground, in varying degrees of rotting. Rick tiptoed over those damned leaves, bow on his shoulder. It was cold too. He buttoned his flannel jacket to his chin. Beside him walked Fred.
Now Fred Bear was a handsome son of a bitch. And he could charm the dress off any unsuspecting young woman. Or suspecting young woman. She was always young. He didn't take them any other way. He could aim too. Boy could he aim.
"Where the hell are all the deer?"
"They can't be rushed. They will come."
Fred was one of those spiritual hunters. He was out there for the thrill of the hunt, and didn't give a lick about feeding his family. Fred didn't have a family. He chased girls, bedded them, grew beards, and hunted. Rick hid his jealousy in an easy to find place.
"You've got to calm down. Drink this." Fred Bear produced a flask and gave it to Rick.
"We're carrying artillery."
"When the time is right, we will be rewarded."
Rick didn't know what this meant. He usually didn't know what Fred Bear meant. Fred Bear was focused on the flask.
Something flashed in the trees ahead. Rick struggled to get his bow straightened and aimed at the something. Fred Bear dropped the flask, dropped the prey, caught the flask. It was a fluid motion. Rick cursed the son of a bitch.
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