by Lynn Kinsey
The fire dwindled—hot coals barely breathing. It was dawn, and getting cold in the small cabin. I looked out the window. Mist moved across the field where a hawk circled above, its head darting back and forth looking for breakfast.
“No TV, no phone, no internet. What the hell was I thinking?” I grumbled to no one.
He thought it would be cool to move up here—remote, isolated from the rest of the world. Pissed was an understatement as I had little food, the horse was lame, and Mr. Pioneer had been dead for a month. It would be almost two months before the supply plane would come—my taxi home.
I was stuck. Stuck and pissed. I knew what I had to do, but loathed doing it. I looked at the rifle by the door, then back over to the stump outside—the axe deeply lodged in its middle. Can I even wield the damn thing? I hated the cold.
I let out a deep sigh and lamented my last beautiful French tip. I pulled on my hiking boots, put on his blue parka, and grabbed the gun. Cracking the door, feather light flurries touched my feverish cheeks. I peeked out towards the dark tree line, the only place to get wood— the bears are surely in hibernation. The thought of room service and hot scones popped into my head. My stomach growled, and I caressed my swollen belly. The hawk soared straight to Earth, chuckling.
(Lynn Kinsey lives in Colorado with her three children(four if you count her husband)and lots of animals on a 30,000 acre parcel of Earth. She looks forward to graduating summa cum laude from UC Denver with her BA in English Writing this year.)