vituperation

The following work is incomplete. I stopped writing on it when I got bored with it, and I have no idea where it’s going next.

That’s where you come in.

If you’re interested in winning a VALUABLE PRIZE (cough), read on:

The Hunt

© 2003-2005 vituperation.com. All rights reserved.

“Sure Leslie’s hot, but the real question is does she put out?” Randy said, his mouth curving into an infectious grin. He always had a way of getting right to the heart of matters, particularly when women were being discussed.

We were on our way to our deer stand, hoping to bag one last buck—even a spike would’ve been nice, given the slim pickings that year—on the last weekend of hunting season. That January morning was cold and blustery, perfect for the deer to be out, and as we walked along, our breath chuffing out in plumes of white, conversation turned (as conversation among guys often does) to the fairer sex.

“I don’t know if she puts out,” I said, “We’ve only been out twice. Good Lord, give me a few more dates.”

Randy laughed.

“A few more dates? How long is it going to—shit!” Randy’s hunting hat, a bright orange thing resembling a baseball cap with earflaps, had been snatched off his head by the greedy wind and was rolling merrily down the path we’d just climbed. He turned, laughing, and ran after it. It was moving at a pretty good pace, and probably would’ve rolled the whole five miles back to our ATVs had it not fetched up in a bush.

Randy bent and grabbed his cap, spinning his bow and arrows around to his back so he didn’t get poked. He jogged back up the hill toward me, still laughing.

“I guess I need to glue this damn thing to my—”

The top third of Randy’s head exploded, its solidity vanishing into a bright spray of blood, bone, and brain. I felt the warm droplets splash my face as I tried to process what I was seeing. He was dead by the time I heard the crack of gunfire roll across the mountainside almost a second later, but he didn’t know it.

He blinked once and his mouth worked soundlessly. He lifted his left foot—it’s always the little things we remember, even years later—and tried to take a step toward me before pitching forward onto the ground. Blood poured from the cavernous opening in his skull, a splash of brilliant color amidst the brown leaves. I realized I could see the backs of his eyes through that hole, twitching and jerking. He still gripped the blaze orange hat in one hand.

I’d like to tell you I was heroic then, that I managed to resuscitate Randy and carry him back to the ATVs, then on into Nashville and a hospital, but the truth is far more mundane: I stood there for some time staring stupidly at his body, unable to comprehend what my eyes were showing me. Most likely I’d still be there, a thin ribbon of spittle hanging from my chin as I continued to gawp, willing his head to regenerate and him to rise up like the phoenix from the ashes, but I was shaken from my reverie by the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush toward me.

I turned toward the sound but saw nothing; the brush and trees were far too dense. I could hear him grunting out there, struggling to blaze his own trail where there was none. I watched in silence until I caught sight of the man, resplendent in a camouflage jumpsuit, looking down in an effort to keep from tripping over the roots and brambles. Under his right arm, pointed at the ground, was a very large chrome-plated shotgun.

He looked up and our eyes met. His widened with surprise.

“Oh, my…” he said, “You’re a person! Oh, Jesus, are you okay?”

“Randy,” I said. “You shot my friend. He’s dead.” My voice was flat, emotionless because the reality of the situation was still so big my mind hadn’t quite grasped it.

The man in the woods picked up his pace, hopping from spot to spot, his eyes jittering from me to the ground and back.

“Oh God,” he said, his voice shaking like he was about to cry, “I thought he was a deer.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I was in my stand back there. I saw the movement and took the shot. I thought it was a deer!”

He broke through the underbrush and was on the path, facing me.

And thus it ends. What happens next? I have no idea. Will the guy with the gun try to kill the protagonist to cover his accident? Will he kill himself out of despair over what he’s done? Will the protagonist raise Randy from the dead?

You tell me.

Here’s the deal. In the comments, tell me how the story should end, summarizing in two or three paragraphs. In a week or so, I’ll choose my favorite ending. The person whose that is wins their choice of three videos from a selection of 20 or 25, and a copy of my book (unless they’d rather have a book from the “already read” pile). At some point in the future I’ll actually finish the story, using the winning summary as a basis.

Interested? Post away in the comments, and be sure to leave a valid email where I can get in touch with you if you’re the winner.

Legal: by posting a suggested ending to the story in the comments below, you’re granting me full rights to use the idea, whether you win or not. If your entry is the winning entry, you agree to accept as payment in full the items listed above (videos and books). If you don’t agree to this, please don’t post.