Tracks

Just a few days shy of the mark, an arrow tipped with ocean water and sanded down with seashells. Mermaids crafted it especially for you, a wish of good tiding in the hunt. Scaled fins and toothy smiles with the expectation of blood in the water upon your return.

They like rotted bodies best. To kiss something without the romance, to taste without the guilt.

Your arrow missed.

A woods boy’s cap embedded in a tree, wide eyes reflecting twin targets unmarked. You can’t tell if remorse filled your stomach then or disgust. The feeling of looking at your own red hands when the crime was botched; when the buck escaped and all you had left was the empty bow and quiver.

You pull the feather from his hat. Red and soft, shaking in the wind. You imagine him covered in feathers, kind smile with the hope of a better tomorrow.

Tracks travel through mud and slush. You finger the knife at your belt. There is no better tomorrow, only the expectation of today. The expectation of blood in the water and a body kissed apart by teeth.

The tracks are followed.

Author's Note

Haven't been writing much lately, unfortunately.