The Hunted

The doe is made of silver. Leveling his rifle at her fawn made of gold, the hunter’s hands shake just one good shot away from fortune.

His aim is spoiled as a stag of iron strides between him and his target.

Eyes fixed, it charges.

One good shot does nothing.

Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

Discover more of my Aethereal Musings.

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