Story: My Dad's Kill

Ian · 07-29-2010, 11:30 PM

This'll be up tomorrow with pic's and a few revisions. I'll link when it is but for anyone that wants to read it and throw me some feedback I'm interested.

Blunt comments welcome. If you were bored tell me, and what would you change.

This story is as true as I remember it.

When I was a kid, I don’t remember my Dad having any hobbies – only passions. An engineer with 3 degrees, including two in music theory, if he’d have taken up coin collecting, he wouldn’t have started by casually sorting through the change in his pocket for the oldest ones. He would have bought four books on coin collecting and as many instructional videos as he could find, followed by booking us tours at the closest 3 mints. Accumulate as much knowledge as you can about something, and the rest will come through practice.

I remember him getting into lamp making, kite and model building, cross-country skiing, and hunting. At a young age I sat with him and watched numerous videos on hunting, gutting, tanning, and trapping all manner of game. Our house became peppered with bird calls, small vials of animal urine, various tools covered in camouflage patterns, knife sets, and a small arsenal of firearms. I have vague memories of a shotgun, a 30 ought 6 hunting rifle, a semi-automatic rifle, and several handguns all showing up within a relatively short span of each other. Eventually he purchased a compound bow for elk hunting.

The bow in question is not the kind of bow that Robin Hood carried. The compound bow was invented in the 60s and features a system of levers and pulleys that maximizes the range an accuracy of an arrow. The arrow in question looks like something Klingons invented. The tip is essentially a nail with 3 or 4 triangular razors attached to it. As an eight-year-old kid, it was the stuff of nightmares.

For several summers he would pack his various gear into our Suburban and drive up into the Rockies, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He would hunt wild turkey, elk, and deer. Each time he went off my Mom would turn to us three kids and say, “Let's all pray that he doesn't come back with anything.” I think the thought of a large amount of dead animal in the house that didn't come wrapped in cellophane from the frozen food section was a revolting one to her. That might have been why she burned meat unrecognizable as well. I'm sure she was happy then that in those years, he never did manage to kill anything.

While the family did go camping every so often, I don't remember ever going hunting with my Dad except once. It was his last time hunting. My parents were already separated at the time and, unbeknownst to me, my Dad and I were ten months away from moving from Colorado to Illinois.

For this trip it was just the two of us, and I remember riding up a bumpy dirt road, flanked by pine trees and valleys. My Dad and I talked enthusiastically about all the meat we would eat we would have to eat when the trip was finished and where we'd hang his trophy bull elk. We parked at the end of a short and rugged divergence from the main road, next to a large empty field pock-marked with prairie dog holes. Beyond that were the woods.

I helped make the several trips required to carry the tent poles and various camping equipment the twenty minutes to where our site was. We pitched our mammoth tent, camouflage of course, and Dad went to work on dinner. At that age, I found any meal fascinating that wasn't made in a kitchen or a restaurant. It felt as odd as it might've had an elk stumbled into my Mom's kitchen.

That night my Dad wrapped his wrist watch into the fold of his stocking cap, the alarm for the morning, and we zipped ourselves up into our sleeping bags. When I woke up, the tent baking in the morning sunshine, he was already gone off with his bow in search of prey.

He came back in the early afternoon disappointed but still hopeful. We cooked lunch, talked about how much better elk meat would taste then the beans we were eating, and spent the afternoon doing things that a father a son do on camping trips. For two days this went on, but as the opportunities started to become fewer, and as he hadn't even yet seen an elk, my Dad's enthusiasm began to bleed out. He became quieter and more distracted. There was no more talking about all the elk we were going to eat and he would come back and eat lunch with me only to head out into the trees again.

Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, after another trip into the the trees, he came back and told me it was time to pack up and head back into civilization. We disassembled the camp site, packed his hunting equipment into containers, and started the trips to carry the various gear back to the Suburban.

But after several trips, I notice that Dad wasn't with me anymore. I carried an arm load of tent poles back up the trail to the car, tossed them inside, and looked around. Prairie dogs were running for their lives like city dwellers running terrified from Godzilla. In the middle of the chaos was Dad, bow in hand firing, arrows at the retreating animals. I watched two or three miss their mark until one arrow hit the ground and continued to wiggle.

Dad sprinted to it and held the skewered animal up in the air by his arrow. It settled on the shaft slightly, Klingon weapon protruding from its chest. As with most suburban dwelling children, most of my experience with wild animals at the time was through Disney movies. In virtually every one of them the animals are cute, chatty, and lovable. I'd never seen a Disney movie with a talking elk or wild turkey, but I'd seen quite a few with animals that looked like the bleeding mess suspended from Dad's arrow. It was like Thumper's distant cousin Scamper.
He noticed me watching and smiled, but the smile on his face wasn't a happy one, but feverish.

“Keep carrying the stuff to the car big guy, I'll be right there.”

Then he carried his prize to a nearby bench and pulled out his knife. I did as instructed. In the time it took to make the remaining trips Scamper was gutted, skinned, and boned and his hide was salted. When I was done I walked back to the bench and Dad was cleaning his tools. The look on his face from earlier was gone. He seemed spent, and didn't make any eye contact with me. He had dumped Scamper in a paper bag and rolled the top closed. The bag was moist, like a delivery bag from a fast food restaurant.

He pointed at it and said without looking up from his tools, “Go throw this in that trash bin over there. I'm going to finish cleaning up the camp site.” Then he walked away.

I stared at the paper bag few a few minutes fearfully. I thought about Scamper. I thought about all of Scamper's hopes and dreams – Scamper's family, probably still hiding terrified in their groundhog city just nearby. I decided that Scamper deserved better than the trash.

I picked up the paper bag and walked past the prairie dog city into the trees beyond, carrying Scamper at arm's length.

When I found what looked like a peaceful site for a burial, next to a small creek and in some trees, I put Scamper's remains down and dug a grave. When I'd made a hole about a foot deep, I picked up the bag, inverted over the hole and closed my eyes. It was like pouring a pile of spaghetti into a waste bin. There was a wet drippy noise as Scamper's parts landed in his gravesite. Then I put the bag aside, pulled the mound of dirt into the hole, and circled it with rocks so Scamper's family could find him if they needed to.

I closed my eyes as I'd seen in movies and said a few words to God, telling him to take care of Scamper always. Then I picked up the wet paper bag and walked back to the car. As we started to drive back home Dad asked what I'd done with the prairie dog and I told him I'd buried it by a creek before I started to nod off.

After about fifteen minutes I awoke, not from the bumpy road knocking the car around, but because we were at a dead stop. I lifted my head off my chest and looked at the road in front of us. Crossing the road leisurely was a female and large bull elk. They stopped for a moment in their walk, the bull sniffed at our car, and the two of them moved on. My Dad stared impassive, both hands twisting minutely at the wheel, until the furry couple was gone. Then he put the car in gear and drove home.

We didn't speak for the rest of the drive and that was the last time he ever went hunting.

fiction · 07-30-2010, 02:12 AM

Good story, well worth reading.

Thematically it reminded me of Hemingway's Nick Adams stories.

I'm unsure whether it should be fleshed out or pared down after a quick read-through, maybe it is fine as it is.

Cam · 07-30-2010, 07:50 AM

Interesting, and somewhat sad/disturbing. Again, well written. However, I thought there were a few awkward sentences.

Quote:

An engineer with 3 degrees, including two in music theory, if he’d have taken up coin collecting, he wouldn’t have started by casually sorting through the change in his pocket for the oldest ones.

I feel I would read better as:
He is an engineer with 3 degrees, including two in music theory. If he had taken up coin collecting, he wouldn’t have started by casually sorting through the change in his pocket for the oldest ones.

Quote:

I'm sure she was happy then that in those years, he never did manage to kill anything.

I felt the "then that" was odd:
I'm sure she was happy in those years that he never did manage to kill anything.

Concerning "the last time he ever went hunting", I feel that it would have more gravitas if it was only mentioned in the last line, not in the lead-in to your story as well.

Quote:

For this trip it was just the two of us, and I remember riding up a bumpy dirt road, flanked by pine trees and valleys.

Overall, I noticed a few run-on sentences again. Try to use "and" as little as possible, unless it's the end of a list:
For this trip, it was just the two of us. I remember riding up a bumpy dirt road, flanked by pine trees and valleys.

Quote:

My Dad and I talked enthusiastically about all the meat we would eat we would have to eat when the trip was finished and where we'd hang his trophy bull elk.

That looks like a plain ol' typo. The "and" is OK in this case because you are listing what you were talking about.
My Dad and I talked enthusiastically about all the meat we would have to eat when the trip was finished and where we'd hang his trophy bull elk.

Quote:

We pitched our mammoth tent, camouflage of course, and Dad went to work on dinner.

I would change "and" to "then" because dad's making dinner after you pitched the tent:
We pitched our mammoth tent, camouflage of course, then Dad went to work on dinner.

Quote:

It felt as odd as it might've had an elk stumbled into my Mom's kitchen.

This sentence confused me. I had to read it a few times to get it. I think it's awkward, but I can't suggest how to convey the same message in a different manner.

Quote:

That night my Dad wrapped his wrist watch into the fold of his stocking cap, the alarm for the morning, and we zipped ourselves up into our sleeping bags.

A note about capitalization: if you're calling your dad by his name as you know it, Dad, it should be capitalized because it's a proper noun. However, if you're calling him a dad, my dad, or something like that, it should not be capitalized. Also, it's a run-on sentence:
That night, Dad wrapped his wrist watch into the fold of his stocking cap, the alarm for the morning. Then, we zipped ourselves into our sleeping bags.

Anyway, sorry if I'm nitpicking it apart. Just a few things to think about for your next story. I look forward to reading it.

**Emion** · 07-30-2010, 08:34 AM

I'm rather shocked that he actually hit one. Those fuckers are fast.

Ian · 07-30-2010, 08:35 AM

Good tips Cam. I actually made all the suggestions you suggested. I'll repaste the whole thing here.

Why sad though? Wasn't the emtion I was shooting for.

hmm...doesn't want to save the re-paste. Let me get the site version posted.

BrianJ · 07-30-2010, 09:05 AM

I'm being twitter-posted again. I can e-mail you my comments, just tell me where.

Cam · 07-30-2010, 09:10 AM

I felt sadness, first of all, because of your parents separating. I realize it was not the focus of your narrative, but you mentioned it. Perhaps it would be better to drop that sentence from the story?

I was sad for you for ending up being kind of set aside by your dad on the trip thanks to his near-single-minded determination to kill something. I also felt sadness and pity for your dad because of his near-single-minded determination to kill something.

Ian · 07-30-2010, 09:19 AM

hmmm . . .

may be a lot further from done then than I thought.

Ian · 07-30-2010, 10:35 AM

Thanks Cam and Brian for your editing suggestions. I think I made 95 percent of your changes, cut a few things etc. I guess I'm satisfied with the tone as is though I will continue tinkering with this for a few days until I move on to next Friday's post. Try and sharpen and refine it.

http://www.brainflatulence.com/2010/07/247/#more-247

07-29-2010, 11:30 PM	#1
Ian GORGEOUS Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 4,523	Story: My Dad's Kill This'll be up tomorrow with pic's and a few revisions. I'll link when it is but for anyone that wants to read it and throw me some feedback I'm interested. Blunt comments welcome. If you were bored tell me, and what would you change. This story is as true as I remember it. When I was a kid, I don’t remember my Dad having any hobbies – only passions. An engineer with 3 degrees, including two in music theory, if he’d have taken up coin collecting, he wouldn’t have started by casually sorting through the change in his pocket for the oldest ones. He would have bought four books on coin collecting and as many instructional videos as he could find, followed by booking us tours at the closest 3 mints. Accumulate as much knowledge as you can about something, and the rest will come through practice. I remember him getting into lamp making, kite and model building, cross-country skiing, and hunting. At a young age I sat with him and watched numerous videos on hunting, gutting, tanning, and trapping all manner of game. Our house became peppered with bird calls, small vials of animal urine, various tools covered in camouflage patterns, knife sets, and a small arsenal of firearms. I have vague memories of a shotgun, a 30 ought 6 hunting rifle, a semi-automatic rifle, and several handguns all showing up within a relatively short span of each other. Eventually he purchased a compound bow for elk hunting. The bow in question is not the kind of bow that Robin Hood carried. The compound bow was invented in the 60s and features a system of levers and pulleys that maximizes the range an accuracy of an arrow. The arrow in question looks like something Klingons invented. The tip is essentially a nail with 3 or 4 triangular razors attached to it. As an eight-year-old kid, it was the stuff of nightmares. For several summers he would pack his various gear into our Suburban and drive up into the Rockies, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He would hunt wild turkey, elk, and deer. Each time he went off my Mom would turn to us three kids and say, “Let's all pray that he doesn't come back with anything.” I think the thought of a large amount of dead animal in the house that didn't come wrapped in cellophane from the frozen food section was a revolting one to her. That might have been why she burned meat unrecognizable as well. I'm sure she was happy then that in those years, he never did manage to kill anything. While the family did go camping every so often, I don't remember ever going hunting with my Dad except once. It was his last time hunting. My parents were already separated at the time and, unbeknownst to me, my Dad and I were ten months away from moving from Colorado to Illinois. For this trip it was just the two of us, and I remember riding up a bumpy dirt road, flanked by pine trees and valleys. My Dad and I talked enthusiastically about all the meat we would eat we would have to eat when the trip was finished and where we'd hang his trophy bull elk. We parked at the end of a short and rugged divergence from the main road, next to a large empty field pock-marked with prairie dog holes. Beyond that were the woods. I helped make the several trips required to carry the tent poles and various camping equipment the twenty minutes to where our site was. We pitched our mammoth tent, camouflage of course, and Dad went to work on dinner. At that age, I found any meal fascinating that wasn't made in a kitchen or a restaurant. It felt as odd as it might've had an elk stumbled into my Mom's kitchen. That night my Dad wrapped his wrist watch into the fold of his stocking cap, the alarm for the morning, and we zipped ourselves up into our sleeping bags. When I woke up, the tent baking in the morning sunshine, he was already gone off with his bow in search of prey. He came back in the early afternoon disappointed but still hopeful. We cooked lunch, talked about how much better elk meat would taste then the beans we were eating, and spent the afternoon doing things that a father a son do on camping trips. For two days this went on, but as the opportunities started to become fewer, and as he hadn't even yet seen an elk, my Dad's enthusiasm began to bleed out. He became quieter and more distracted. There was no more talking about all the elk we were going to eat and he would come back and eat lunch with me only to head out into the trees again. Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, after another trip into the the trees, he came back and told me it was time to pack up and head back into civilization. We disassembled the camp site, packed his hunting equipment into containers, and started the trips to carry the various gear back to the Suburban. But after several trips, I notice that Dad wasn't with me anymore. I carried an arm load of tent poles back up the trail to the car, tossed them inside, and looked around. Prairie dogs were running for their lives like city dwellers running terrified from Godzilla. In the middle of the chaos was Dad, bow in hand firing, arrows at the retreating animals. I watched two or three miss their mark until one arrow hit the ground and continued to wiggle. Dad sprinted to it and held the skewered animal up in the air by his arrow. It settled on the shaft slightly, Klingon weapon protruding from its chest. As with most suburban dwelling children, most of my experience with wild animals at the time was through Disney movies. In virtually every one of them the animals are cute, chatty, and lovable. I'd never seen a Disney movie with a talking elk or wild turkey, but I'd seen quite a few with animals that looked like the bleeding mess suspended from Dad's arrow. It was like Thumper's distant cousin Scamper. He noticed me watching and smiled, but the smile on his face wasn't a happy one, but feverish. “Keep carrying the stuff to the car big guy, I'll be right there.” Then he carried his prize to a nearby bench and pulled out his knife. I did as instructed. In the time it took to make the remaining trips Scamper was gutted, skinned, and boned and his hide was salted. When I was done I walked back to the bench and Dad was cleaning his tools. The look on his face from earlier was gone. He seemed spent, and didn't make any eye contact with me. He had dumped Scamper in a paper bag and rolled the top closed. The bag was moist, like a delivery bag from a fast food restaurant. He pointed at it and said without looking up from his tools, “Go throw this in that trash bin over there. I'm going to finish cleaning up the camp site.” Then he walked away. I stared at the paper bag few a few minutes fearfully. I thought about Scamper. I thought about all of Scamper's hopes and dreams – Scamper's family, probably still hiding terrified in their groundhog city just nearby. I decided that Scamper deserved better than the trash. I picked up the paper bag and walked past the prairie dog city into the trees beyond, carrying Scamper at arm's length. When I found what looked like a peaceful site for a burial, next to a small creek and in some trees, I put Scamper's remains down and dug a grave. When I'd made a hole about a foot deep, I picked up the bag, inverted over the hole and closed my eyes. It was like pouring a pile of spaghetti into a waste bin. There was a wet drippy noise as Scamper's parts landed in his gravesite. Then I put the bag aside, pulled the mound of dirt into the hole, and circled it with rocks so Scamper's family could find him if they needed to. I closed my eyes as I'd seen in movies and said a few words to God, telling him to take care of Scamper always. Then I picked up the wet paper bag and walked back to the car. As we started to drive back home Dad asked what I'd done with the prairie dog and I told him I'd buried it by a creek before I started to nod off. After about fifteen minutes I awoke, not from the bumpy road knocking the car around, but because we were at a dead stop. I lifted my head off my chest and looked at the road in front of us. Crossing the road leisurely was a female and large bull elk. They stopped for a moment in their walk, the bull sniffed at our car, and the two of them moved on. My Dad stared impassive, both hands twisting minutely at the wheel, until the furry couple was gone. Then he put the car in gear and drove home. We didn't speak for the rest of the drive and that was the last time he ever went hunting. __________________ Brain Flatulence Stuff You Review Last edited by Ian; 07-29-2010 at 11:38 PM..

07-30-2010, 02:12 AM	#2
fiction a dull boy Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 7,212	Good story, well worth reading. Thematically it reminded me of Hemingway's Nick Adams stories. I'm unsure whether it should be fleshed out or pared down after a quick read-through, maybe it is fine as it is. __________________ - Don't put it in your pocket, sir. Don't put it in your pocket. It's your lucky quarter. - Where do you want me to put it? - Anywhere not in your pocket. Where it'll get mixed in with the others and become just a coin. Which it is.

07-30-2010, 08:35 AM	#5
Ian GORGEOUS Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 4,523	Good tips Cam. I actually made all the suggestions you suggested. I'll repaste the whole thing here. Why sad though? Wasn't the emtion I was shooting for. hmm...doesn't want to save the re-paste. Let me get the site version posted. __________________ Brain Flatulence Stuff You Review Last edited by Ian; 07-30-2010 at 08:46 AM..

07-30-2010, 09:19 AM	#8
Ian GORGEOUS Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 4,523	hmmm . . . may be a lot further from done then than I thought. __________________ Brain Flatulence Stuff You Review

07-30-2010, 10:35 AM	#9
Ian GORGEOUS Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 4,523	Thanks Cam and Brian for your editing suggestions. I think I made 95 percent of your changes, cut a few things etc. I guess I'm satisfied with the tone as is though I will continue tinkering with this for a few days until I move on to next Friday's post. Try and sharpen and refine it. http://www.brainflatulence.com/2010/07/247/#more-247 __________________ Brain Flatulence Stuff You Review Last edited by Ian; 07-30-2010 at 11:18 AM..

07-30-2010, 08:34 AM	#4
Emion Morrigan had my baby Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Colorado Posts: 20,769	I'm rather shocked that he actually hit one. Those fuckers are fast.

07-30-2010, 09:05 AM	#6
BrianJ GTX Member Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Twin Cities, MN Posts: 15,220	I'm being twitter-posted again. I can e-mail you my comments, just tell me where.

07-30-2010, 09:10 AM	#7
Cam Team Canada Join Date: Dec 2003 Location: Hamilton, Ontario Posts: 4,788	I felt sadness, first of all, because of your parents separating. I realize it was not the focus of your narrative, but you mentioned it. Perhaps it would be better to drop that sentence from the story? I was sad for you for ending up being kind of set aside by your dad on the trip thanks to his near-single-minded determination to kill something. I also felt sadness and pity for your dad because of his near-single-minded determination to kill something.

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