The sound of the rifle blast disturbed the otherwise peaceful morning. The gulls took flight, the squirrels and gophers scurried. The dogs started barking, the crows started cawing.
One deer, the large male, fell to the ground with a thud, while the three others scattered into the shelter of the woods. The shooter approached his prey and congratulated himself on the accuracy of his shot. This deer was a four-pointer and it’s head with antlers would make yet another fine trophy for his cabin’s wall.
He could never understand those who claimed that deer hunting isn’t a sport. Of course it is, he reasoned. It takes patience and skill. It’s not something just anybody can do. Just because the other team doesn’t know they’re playing the game doesn’t mean it’s not a sport.
Besides, it’s sanctioned by the state as a means to control overpopulation and to improve the herd.
So screw those who think it’s cruel. They’re just a bunch of libtard snowflakes.
Written for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Photo credit: wildverbs.
By the way, I am one of those libtard snowflakes.