Hunters

solo1y

Every year my father went hunting. Even my mother wasn't sure where he went or what he was doing there. But, every year, he would disappear for a week with a jacket, a shotgun and some cartridges and return with a jacket and a shotgun.

Just before my fifteenth birthday, he asked:

"You want to come with me?"

"Where are you going?"

"Hunting."

I wasn't sure what to say. I had no idea what would be expected of me - I had some suspicions that he made up the whole thing. However, if there was anyone in the world I wanted to be proud of me, it was my father. I wanted to be like him. I said yes.

It was generally accepted in the family that I was a disappointment. My father's happiness on hearing the news that his new child was a male was mitigated gradually over the years by the realisation that I was never going to be a man's man. I had spent my entire early life desperately pretending to be more manly than I really was. The final insult was when I came out as a writer - that I would make my living without having to move around much at all. I tried to explain myself by introducing him to the rougher element of the works of Jack London and Ernest Hemingway, but my efforts were stonewalled. For instance in the latter case, my father's refused to have anything at all to do with someone called Ernest.

"You'll need a gun."

"OK"

I had no intention of shooting anything, but if this crazy adventure in masculinity required me to carry a gun, then a gun I would carry. I wouldn't even bother to load it.

"You'll have to load it too."

Damn it. He had a weird way of knowing my mind.

"You're not going to wuss out of this one."

We drove in almost total silence for hours. I wasn't sure when it happened, as I was lulled into reverie by the stream of drab colours passing the car window, but the small, grey towns and flat, green fields of the first part of our journey gave way to the wet, brown mountains we were driving through later on. We stopped at an arbitrary spot where the road petered out into a field, and stepped out onto dew-covered tufts. My father marched confidently into the brush under the ubiquitous trees, and I followed him.

"So what, exactly-"

"Sh!"

This was the first thing he had said to me since that morning. We trudged through brown and dark-green dampness, twigs snapping, undergrowth bustling, surely alerting every living thing within a two mile radius that here be men. The mist was so heavy, it was impossible to determine if it was, in fact, lightly raining. Simply moving forward deposited moisture on my jacket from the air. You could feel tiny droplets with every inhalation, and it was cold enough that exhalations were visible.

He stopped suddenly, and pointed out a brown shape moving against the background.

"Do you see that?" he whispered.

I saw it. Framed by a gap in the trees, it was a large male deer, hovering protectively around its fawn. The little deer, identical to the large one in all ways except size, was happily crunching on some undergrowth while its antlered guardian looked around. Every so often, the big deer would poke the little one with its nose, but the fawn was in no hurry. Neither of them had seen us.

"It's a deer."

"Right. So what are you going to do?"

"You don't seriously expect me to-"

"Why do you think we're here?"

"Well, I thought, you know. We'd just hang out and sort of pretend to shoot them or something and then go home."

This made him very angry, and despite many quiet protestations, I was soon pointing a shotgun at a deer.

"I'll never hit it at this dist-"

The gun went off in my hand and sent me flying backwards into the mud and the sticks. The fawn shot off. The crack rang out in the soft, damp air for an eternity.

"What the hell was that? It nearly took my arm off! You never told me about the kick!"

My father wasn't looking at me. He was looking into the woods.

"What? What's going on? Jesus - I didn't actually hit the thing, did I?"

I got up, wiped some dirt from my hands onto my coat, and looked. It was obvious that I had, in fact, hit the thing. A wave of nausea hit me. This wasn't supposed to happen. And now I would have to endure the misplaced congratulations from my father. However, these hypothetical congratulations did not materialise. He just stood there, looking at the dead animal. There were no yelps or twitches. It was just dead. We walked over the log we were hiding behind, a few steps towards the dead animal.

"So... do we pick it up or what?"

He didn't answer.

"It looks heavy."

Still no answer. After a long, silent five minutes, he looked at me. There were tears in his eyes. He turned around.

"Hey, what's wrong? Why are you-"

"Don't say another goddamn word! We're going home."

"We can't just leave it here! We-"

"Shut up. Get in the car."

I got in the car. The drive home was in a silence completely different to the silence on the way to the mountains. That silence had been full of anticipation and a shared sense that nothing need be said for two men to enjoy time together. This silence was full of dark thoughts and unanswered questions. Although I suspected strongly that I would not get an explanation, I thought we should still get our story straight before presenting the truncated weekend to my mother.

"So what story are we going with?"

"Story?"

"Yeah - we should probably work something out. You know."

"No."

And that was that. Apparently, there would be no agreement on what may or may not have happened. When we got back, it was past midnight, and my mother knew something was wrong. The air was thick with it. It was so bad, she never asked why we were back so early. She never asked us anything.

I couldn't sleep that night. The permutations kept spinning around in my mind. My father was probably not crazy, but that eliminated only one option. Just before the dawn, I went to the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother was at the table.

"You can't sleep either?"

"No. Did, um..."

"Sit down."

"OK. You want some tea?" I asked as I sat down, watching the first sunlight wash over the garden wall.

"No, thanks, love. Look. You have to understand. Your father is the very same as you."

redser7

I think at its heart it's a great story and tackles familiar and powerful themes. But I think you need to be more crafty in the telling - less telling and more showing. Credit the reader with more intelligence and trust that they will work things out for themselves. Your last sentence "Your father is the very same as you" - find a way to communicate that without actually having someone say it. That sort of idea applied throughout the whole story will make for a more powerful experience for the reader.

Fuzzytrooper

This definitely has potential. It started to feel a little rushed to me after they arrived at the hunting site though.

Mr.Nice Guy

I liked it, and I think with a bit of fine tuning it can be even better. Two bits bothered me. This part:

This made him very angry, and despite many quiet protestations, I was soon pointing a shotgun at a deer.

I wish you had depicted his anger through the dialogue. This took me out of the moment. As was said earlier, don't tell but rather show.

A second point I'd make is that some of the language felt, to me at least, clunky and overly complicated. For example:

And now I would have to endure the misplaced congratulations from my father.

However, these hypothetical congratulations did not materialise.

I thought we should still get our story straight before presenting the truncated weekend to my mother.

I'd suggest simplifying the language to help the piece flow better.

As I said, though, I did enjoy the read.

femur61

I liked the story, but parts didn't flow, maybe as some other posters said use dialogue to show rather than telling.

solo1y

Thanks for the comments!

I credit the reader with enough intelligence to be able to parse "misplaced congratulations" and "hypothetical congratulations" and "truncated weekend" without reaching for a dictionary, or even slowing down. Have I so horribly misjudged my readers that these "big words" interrupt the flow? These phrases describe what I wanted in a precise, economical way. What would sound better: "congratulations I did not want to hear" and "an unwanted conspiratorial grin" and "a weekend cut short"? I like the image of presenting someone with an account of a truncated weekend as if it were a tray of fruit. Maybe it comes off all wrong. I don't know.

Many people have told me before that I rely too heavily on dialogue and setting up dialogue so that, as Nabokov used to complain about Dostoevsky, I might as well be writing a screenplay and not a short story. No one's ever told me I needed to use more dialogue before. Maybe I'll try that.

The mother saying her piece directly is telling rather than showing, but I had hoped it would be telling about her "series of noodle incidents" experiences rather than explaining the point of the story (which I had hoped would be inferred rather than hitting anyone over the head). Maybe I lost it. I'll work on it some more.

Thanks to everyone again. I appreciate that you all took the time to type advice.

Mr.Nice Guy

solo1y wrote: »

Thanks for the comments!

I credit the reader with enough intelligence to be able to parse "misplaced congratulations" and "hypothetical congratulations" and "truncated weekend" without reaching for a dictionary, or even slowing down. Have I so horribly misjudged my readers that these "big words" interrupt the flow? These phrases describe what I wanted in a precise, economical way. What would sound better: "congratulations I did not want to hear" and "an unwanted conspiratorial grin" and "a weekend cut short"? I like the image of presenting someone with an account of a truncated weekend as if it were a tray of fruit. Maybe it comes off all wrong. I don't know.

'Good writing, fiction or poetry, is an assembly of living parts. The living parts are the words, the images, the rhythms. But if any of the parts are dead, if any of the words or images or rhythms don't jump to life as you read them, then the creature is going to be maimed, and the spirit sickly.'

- Ted Hughes

That I disliked the words you used had nothing to do with a lack of intelligence on my part; I understand the words perfectly well. I disliked them because I considered them unhelpful and unsuitable.

solo1y

Mr.Nice Guy wrote: »

'Good writing, fiction or poetry, is an assembly of living parts. The living parts are the words, the images, the rhythms. But if any of the parts are dead, if any of the words or images or rhythms don't jump to life as you read them, then the creature is going to be maimed, and the spirit sickly.'

- Ted Hughes

That I disliked the words you used had nothing to do with a lack of intelligence on my part; I understand the words perfectly well. I disliked them because I considered them unhelpful and unsuitable.

I wasn't calling you stupid. I was reacting to a post which suggested I should credit my readers with more intelligence.

However, what words would you consider to be more helpful or suitable in their stead?

Mr.Nice Guy

solo1y wrote:

However, what words would you consider to be more helpful or suitable in their stead?

Well, since you asked, these would be my thoughts:

I got up, wiped some dirt from my hands onto my coat, and looked. It was obvious that I had, in fact, hit the thing. A wave of nausea hit me. This wasn't supposed to happen. And now I would have to endure the misplaced congratulations from my father. However, these hypothetical congratulations did not materialise. He just stood there, looking at the dead animal. There were no yelps or twitches. It was just dead. We walked over the log we were hiding behind, a few steps towards the dead animal.

The highlighted parts as I said before feel clunky to me; a mouthful. Read it aloud and I think you'll get a better idea of what I mean. You can simplify this. Lose the word 'misplaced' for a start. As readers we can discern that the congratulations are misplaced. And imo you can simplify the line 'these hypothetical congratulations did not materialise.'

Another note, and this is a personal preference here, but I would have liked you to depict the types of things that the protagonist would fear the father would say when congratulating, i.e.:

It was obvious that I had, in fact, hit the thing. A wave of nausea hit me. This wasn't supposed to happen. And now I would have to endure my father's congratulations. 'There was me thinking you would wuss out on me,' 'There might be hope for you yet.' But he just stood there...

As for the 'truncated weekend' line...

Although I suspected strongly that I would not get an explanation, I thought we should still get our story straight before presenting the truncated weekend to my mother.

I really don't like that tbh. I know you say you do, so if it's important to you then go with it, but I would simplify that as well:

Although I suspected strongly that I would not get an explanation, I thought we should still get our story straight before speaking to my mother.

I feel your piece would benefit from a 'less is more' approach.

Let me stress that I hope the above comments are not taken as a knock towards yourself as like I said before, I did like it. I just feel with a few tweaks it can be made better.

You might like this quote from C.S. Lewis (I keep quotes of writers for my own benefit):

"Don't use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was 'terrible', describe it so that we'll be terrified. Don't say it was 'delightful', make us say 'delightful' when we've read the description. You see, all those words - 'horrifying', 'wonderful', 'hideous', 'exquisite' are only like saying to your readers, "Please will you do my job for me."'

solo1y

Mr.Nice Guy wrote: »

Well, since you asked, these would be my thoughts:

I have no interest in the opinions of CS Lewis or Ted Hughes on these things. I can Google quotes if I want them. I wanted your opinion.

I now agree that the word "misplaced" is unnecessary and therefore can be cut. I'm a big fan of cutting unnecessary words. In fact, I make an effort to be as sparse and minimal as possible. It's a specific style choice I'm chasing down. I obviously failed in this particular sentence. You are correct and I was wrong to include it.

Another note, and this is a personal preference here, but I would have liked you to depict the types of things that the protagonist would fear the father would say when congratulating, i.e.:

This is not a bad idea.

I really don't like that tbh. I know you say you do, so if it's important to you then go with it, but I would simplify that as well:

This is also not a bad idea.

I feel your piece would benefit from a 'less is more' approach.

As stated above, I'm kind of hoping the first response of a reader is "There should be more to this". As it seems to have elicited the opposite response in you, I have failed.

Let me stress that I hope the above comments are not taken as a knock towards yourself as like I said before, I did like it. I just feel with a few tweaks it can be made better.

Not at all. I'm not even slightly sensitive about proper criticism such as your post comprises. I already know what's right with it. I wanted to know what was wrong with it. Thanks for taking the time to actually help me out.

Hrududu

solo1y wrote: »

I'm kind of hoping the first response of a reader is "There should be more to this".

That's the response I have. Maybe I didn't read it carefully enough but I have no idea what's going on with the Father or if I'm supposed to know what's going on based off the Mother's comments.

Other than the lack of clarity on my part I like the style of your writing.