Uncle’s hosting this year’s family get-together.
I steer along the winding road. Birdsong floats through the open windows, spring foliage perfumes my nose.
Reaching Uncle’s cabin, I spy a tattered man running towards me from the woods.
“Help!”
He extends bloodied hands, right as a pinwheeling hatchet strikes him dead.
Uncle strides into view, smiling sheepishly. “Shoot”—he yanks blade from bone—“I thought the party was tomorrow.”
“You just wanted to show off,” I reply, eye-rolling. “But the best hunter catches their mark completely off-guard.”
Stealthily, I remove the pick hidden in my braid.
I really cannot stomach braggarts.
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