Ruthless

Dr. Sheila Fabiana, PHD., surveyed the water with her binoculars, looking for signs of predation. Sharks patrolled these waters. Her current task was to record their feeding behavior and keep track of various data related to hunter and prey.

She did not have to wait long.

People think of sharks as ruthless killers, incapable of pity or empathy. Dr. Fabiana believed this was an unfair characterization. People are generally able to feel pity for the unfortunate and empathize with others, including both humans and animals.

Sharks are literally incapable of pity or empathy. Ruthless by definition, but are they really?

Thanks

I cannot thank you,little cat with serious eyes,for your gift of a dead mouse.

I flee from remindersof killing. I am a vegan, and it wouldbe easier if you were too.

But then I would loseyour playfulness and pounce, and turnyou into a timid, nibbling rabbit.

I love you for those things,for your wish to feed me, and foryour love for me, strange as

I must appear to you: so huge,so hairless, so hopeless a hunter. I am thankfulfor what I cannot understand, this strangelove than can span species.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen, and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

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.

Deliver Us From Evil

We are a lost people, driven from our homes. We have nothing except our myths. The myths remind us who we are and teach us about good and evil.

Evil men take their hearts and hide them in some secret place. If you can find their heart and destroy it, you destroy that evil.

From birth, a few of us are trained as hunters. We are no longer of the people. We are separate. We are nothing. Our names are written on a piece of parchment, and burnt without ever being uttered.

Only by becoming evil, can we destroy evil.

The Leprechaun Hunter

Every Leprechaun I've ever known's nothing more than a ruddy thief. All that 'gold' they keep at the end of the rainbow, that's ill-gotten pillage, buried where they think no one will ever find it.

People, especially the lasses, get nostalgic when I tell them I'm a Leprechaun hunter. But their ain't nothing romantic about it. They're shifty bastards, and if you turn your eye for one second, they'll bite you in your nuts and abscond with your daughter.

Being half Leprechaun meself, I reckon their luck don't work against me. Leastways, I've killed more Leprechauns than raindrops in Winter.