Okay, since all one of you asked for it, I’m giving you just a hint of what I have on that thumb drive I mentioned a couple days ago. It’s a nasty little tale of love and wood chippers. Or at least that’s what I hope it’ll be.
The head was a problem.
The rest had been easy enough–a few quick cuts with the chain saw, into the wood chipper, and then into the bone pit. But the head was just too big. Too hard. And it wasn’t a trophy head. Something else would have to be done with it.
Gert squatted down near it, considering her options. Death was nothing new on the island; she’d dealt with it time and again, and would many more times before she herself faced that last journey. It was messy and painful at times, but it was the natural end of every life. Sometimes, too, death had to be hurried, and while she always felt a twinge of regret when she had to end a life, Gert had never thought it was wrong. Unfortunate, often, but never wrong. Not until now. This death had unsettled her, but she didn’t quite know why. After all, this was just another wayward creature intruding on her home and livelihood, too stubborn or dense to take heed to the repeated warnings she’d given it to leave. She was right to defend what was hers.
A tiny pinprick of pain brought her back to herself. Flies, drawn by the scent of blood. Gert brushed one away from her face and followed its flight toward the head. She horrified to see her own hand on it, absently stroking its thick pelt of hair. Snatching her hand back with a cry, she abruptly stood, grabbed an old 5-gallon bucket nearby, and upended it over the ghastly lump. Her gorge rose, and she ran.
She made it to the outhouse just in time.
So whaddya think? More? Less? Never again?