by Kristin Fouquet
I tip my fedora to the sky which will bring me prey. My face is struck by the sting of the frigid wind, forcing my eyes to squint and my cheeks to wince in self-defense. Today, I must make my heart cold as I am not a killer by nature. I must play the part of the hunter.
My eyes catch the sight of black velvet; my hearing is piqued by the sound of wings flapping at the air. This one will do nicely. I aim my rifle and release the trigger. The victim plummets earthbound. Dried leaves crunch under my boots as I find the location of the fall. There it is, lifeless. I’ve derived no thrill-- no pleasure from this stalking or the kill. My motive was love. I have done it only for her, for Eliza.
The reward will be when I see her face after receiving the gift. I am a milliner and these fresh plumes are for my lady’s hat. One lovely wing will drape over the side of the satin brim, a feather gently touching my beloved’s cheek. This bird could never be more beautiful than on my Eliza’s lovely head.