Since I've been posting a lot of old stories I've written, I thought today I'd post an excerpt from something I'm currently working on. It's a flashback scene from the short story I'm writing. I quite like it. Whether or not it makes it into the final version remains to be seen...
“Sometimes
killing can be the easy part,” his father said. “Just keep in
mind that skinning and butchering the animal is what is important.
You can kill a dozen boars, but if you don't have the stomach, or the
knowledge, to get the meat, you've wasted your time.”
The
young boy nodded, brushing his red hair out of his eyes as his father
pulled the spear from the dead boar.
“I'll
show you how it's done this time, but pay attention, because the next
time we go out hunting it'll be your turn.” He smiled at the boy.
“And we wouldn't want your mother going hungry, would we?”
“No,
sir,” he said, the boy crouching beside his father as he took out
his knives and began showing his son how to work on the carcass.
“Some
people use all of the beast – the skin, the meat, the organs, the
eyes – all of it,” he said as he sliced through the boar's hide
and into the flesh underneath. “And some people use very little.
The people of Vagross, for example. Sure, they use the hides to make
their packs, saddles, armor and the like, but they only take the meat
when they need it. Sometimes they don't take it at all.”
“Why
is that, sir?”
“They
don't think they need it, I suppose. They figure that the hides are
what are important, at least to them. I guess they figure there will
always be enough animals to skin, and not all of them need to be
eaten.”
“It
seems like a waste.”
“Some
people don't take anything at all,” his father said. “They hunt
for fun. Or for sport. That's the real waste.”
The
boy nodded, and they crouched in silence for a while, his father
working on dividing the carcass into sections, getting the boy to
wrap the pieces in cloth to keep the flies and other insects from
getting to the meat. When they were done, there was little left
except for the blood soaked earth where the dead boar had once lain.
“Why
do people kill other people?” the boy asked at last, as they packed
the wrapped boar into wet sacks to keep it cool for the trip back
home.
His
father thought for a long time before answering.
“That's
a much bigger question,” he said at last. “The answer can be very
long and very complicated.”
The
boy nodded once more.
“We
should probably talk about it properly soon, though,” his father
said. “It's important that you know. For now I'll give you the
short answer.”
The
boy looked expectantly at his father, brushing his hair out of his
eyes once more.
“Because
they can,” he simply said.
