Preparing to work on a new novel for the first time in five or six years, I was cleaning out some old writings folders and stumbled upon some books I wrote a while back but never ended up doing anything with.

I was happy with how it turned out but, back then, I was so convinced no literary agency or publishing house would give me a chance, I didn’t bother sending it into the world.

Anyway, I figured I’d share some of it here.

If you find it interesting and would like to read the rest, shoot me an email and I’ll send you a free digital copy. No strings attached. I’m not trying to farm emails for some annoying newsletter or anything like that.

The StickHare
Chapter I

In a place where there was no rain, the old man removed his ballcap and scratched the snowy stubble on his withered chin and whispered, “Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” Answered himself with silence. Replaced the hat and dug into shirt pocket and fumbled with battery pack and flicked switch with cracked thumbnail thick and wide even on such a large hand, and muted the bugs, the birds.

Peeped again through the 10-power scope and watched the pale man half his age and a hundred times his net worth sip from a steaming tin cup and poke the smoldering fire with a honey locust branch. Onto the windless morning canvas had burst brushes of pastel yellow and pink, streaks of mauve.

Under rainbow sherbet skies, the old man had prayed he be steadfast and just. Now the low eastern sun had sucked up all the dew and skewed long shadows, which belied their anchors, onto the valley below.

Laid the rifle in the grass and rolled to his side and unfolded the campaign flyer. Red and blue letters below waving flag. Studied the smiling face and put it away and thought and pulled it back out one last time for good measure. Had to be him.

“Mr. Ivester, I promise you won’t feel a thing. God’s honest truth.” Stuffed the paper in his pants and sighted the target again. Now there was a woman and two little girls, each with a fishing pole. Old man swung the 30-06 by eighths of inches, following the unwitting campers as they loaded the van.

Younger man walked to and from the tent, stopping to rig hooks and sinkers on the long poles and put red-and-white bobbers on the two smaller fishing poles.

Old man lifted the freshly oiled bolt handle and pulled it back and slid it forward in one practiced motion and drew a breath and slid his pointer finger to safety, across guard, over little curve of tiny black banana, and rested fingertip on trigger. Exhaled long and relaxed through pinched lips. Old man’s shoulder jerked, hands stung with familiarity, and the young man’s head snapped back in crimson mizzle.

Old man rolled onto his side and lowered the rifle and rested the sore shoulder. Twenty boxes of shells he’d put through the gun over the last week sang in every tender spot in the crotch of his arm. Practiced to redundancy. Hadn’t done this kind of work in nearly forty years. And he was far from finished.

Rolled back onto his belly and peeped the valley. Woman and girls huddled against the van opposite the fire pit and the still body. Bottoms of the younger man’s lifeless shoes stared back through the crosshairs. Whether the angle of the body obscured what was left—or indeed the head was gone—the old man could not confirm.

No rise of chest nor twitch of finger for over a minute. Old man switched the battery pack on, and the world rejoined his ears in flood of flap and chirp and mournful scream.

Aching joints flared even at the thought of the hike back but the rumble in his stomach meant he hadn’t much time before his hands would shake and he would be too dizzy to walk.

Once more he checked the body down in the valley for movement. That burgeoning widow finally peered around the front bumper with her red eyes and wet cheeks. Breeze had kicked up and was blowing her long hair around comically, confuting the grim nature of recent events.

Old man’s long glass eye shadowed her as she looked around frantically before again retreating from view. “Oh, honey. It’ll be alright.” He whispered this while he put the gun into its case and zipped it closed. His words a blown kiss to be carried windward down into the valley of the grieving. Cold comfort. Best he could do under the circumstances.

Old man crawled those first hundred steps away from his work before rising with aid of a deadfall stump. Slung the gun case strap over his good shoulder and took small steps for near twelve minutes, timing himself on the scuffed silver wristwatch. Stopped when the burgundy cab of his truck, an old-timer in its own right, came into sight. He waited, turned up his electric ears and waited some more.

Put the gun behind the bench seat and climbed in and waited for his breathing to slow to normal before pumping the gas and leaning on the ignition. While the engine warmed, he took two butterscotch candies from the glovebox and popped one in each cheek. His empty stomach burned, and he belched an acidic little mouthful and swallowed it and cleared his throat before kicking the clutch and shifting and sputtering back to the highway.

Drove seven minutes until he found the restaurant and gas station he’d passed late in the night. Ordered and guzzled a glass of orange juice and a water with no ice and massaged his shoulder until the food came.

Had a breakfast ever tasted so good? Thought about those girls. Be a long time before they would enjoy anything again. But this was all for the best. Had to be done. For the greater good. Besides, he was just following orders.

Squeegeed the last of the sausage gravy with a crust of biscuit when tires screeched to a stop outside and the breathless woman and her shrieking girls nearly took the door off coming in. While they were ushered into the back to call the police, he finished his plate and motioned the waitress who was gawking at the commotion. Between his fingers, a plastic card.

“I’m not sure we take this, Mr. … Barnes.”

His yellow eyes bulged like they always had but perhaps to a new face made him seem angry.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll check.”

“Kindly.” Old man took a small paper scrap from his wallet, pencil from his flannel pocket, and crossed off the third name down—first two already lined through. When he looked up, he was the only person in the dining room not murmuring about the hysterical family.

Out the window, the sun had slipped away when he wasn’t looking. Felt his mood darken a few shades likewise.

“Your lucky day.” Waitress set the check and card and a receipt on the table with a pen. Barnes squinted, wrote in the tip, added the total, and signed the bottom.

She scooped them up and started away and said, “Hold on. Looks like you got one too many zeros here.”

“No ma’am.”

“You mean to gimme a hundred-dollar tip?”

“Best biscuits I had in I don’t know.”

“You have no idea.” One black raindrop formed at the outside crease of her lazy eye and she dabbed it before it had a chance to trickle down her cheek. “Bless you.”

Barnes pawed the air and put on his hat; dark shade of his cheeks concealing his blush. Took a mint from the dish next to the register and went out to his truck and laid a road atlas against the steering wheel and traced his finger north as the far-off howl of sirens encircled and pushed in on him. Reached into his shirt pocket and flipped the switch and delivered himself once again into solitude.