Platero And I: The Hunt

You will be pleased to know, Platero, that the Earl has decided to no longer conduct or permit hunting parties on his estate.

You and all the other animals of the village will no longer be startled by loud blasts of old guns, nor will the smell of gunpowder hang over the fields for days like an autumn mist.

I will certainly miss that delightful and wonderfully spiced pie the Earl brings me every year.

Ramiro, the old poacher, chuckled as he confided in me: "That recent obligation to wear fluorescent vests while hunting was too much for the Earl."

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Houghton

The dark forest overlooking Houghton was well known to be the home of sprites. Thomas Buchanan, of Oxford, had made the journey to confirm the rumors of their presence were true. He came with all the normal accoutrement, including a traveling dresser, a coterie of servants, and a pack of beagles.

The sprites are nearly impossible to find when they want to stay hidden but Buchanan was prepared. Through a mixture of alchemy and freshly-baked pudding, he attracted a number of the young fairies. The hunt had begun.

No one ever heard from Buchanan, or the villagers of Houghton, again.

The Thrill Of The Hunt

She sniffed the air. Their stink was everywhere, making it hard for her to pinpoint a direction. But the wind was blowing from the south, so she would start in that direction.

Her handlers urged her to take the helicopter, or failing that, allow them to zip ahead with the scout vehicles. But the glory of a successful hunt would all fall to her. It was only fair that she place herself at the greatest risk. Besides, she found the whole selcouth experience so tantalizing.

After all, hunting your own species is always the most dangerous. And the most satisfying.