{"id":1501,"date":"2016-04-04T17:31:36","date_gmt":"2016-04-05T01:31:36","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/?p=1501"},"modified":"2016-04-04T17:31:36","modified_gmt":"2016-04-05T01:31:36","slug":"the-fish-hunter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/?p=1501","title":{"rendered":"The Fish Hunter"},"content":{"rendered":"

A sudden splurge of motion rattles the shed. The dust stirs with a clatter of feet, stifled laughter, and scraping tools. The dust settles. Silence returns. All is as it was, except for the digging fork missing from its corner. <\/p>\n

The process repeats at five or six other sheds in the neighborhood. Some grab pitchforks, some resort to tilling tools. All are sharp, pointy, and about to be used for unintended purposes. A mob is forming. <\/p>\n

\"Research<\/a><\/p>\n

They gathered along the muddy bands on the other side of the freeway. It was bright afternoon when most reputable persons were working or in school. But this was spring break. And their repute was not yet settled. <\/p>\n

They wore basketball shorts and jerseys for their favorite teams. In another situation they might be dismissed as regular 15 year-olds, just starting to get bold enough to publicly act on their ideas. They willfully charged into the waters of the creek with absolute disregard for damaged clothing or bodies. Shift steps punctuated with gleeful shouts of bloodlust, pointed gardening instruments firmly grasped in hand. <\/p>\n

\"Hobble<\/a><\/p>\n

They scoured the creek bed, splashing past the dead badger without a second glance. They reached the slower shallows deep in the beds of bulrushes, safe from the sight or hearing of the noisy freeway. They had found that brand of private anonymity that only a swamp provides. <\/p>\n

One of them slowed behind the crowd with dark bloodshot eyes scanning a side channel. He saw the glint of burnished golden scales. Unlike the others he saved his war cry for the end of his hunt. He swiftly lunged through the shallow water, his waterlogged cleats churning in the mud and sand. <\/p>\n

\"Hobble<\/a><\/p>\n

His prey shot out in front of him aware that some new danger had disturbed its simple life. The predator man-child used his growing height and long legs to chase above the viscus water covering space faster than the fish which soon tired in moving its great bulk and bony head. <\/p>\n

The range closed, the victor towered above with digging fork held back in tension. He sprung, the great fish struggled but was endowed with no tools sufficient for this foe. The once-child hoisted the 7 pounds of defamed seafood into the air and released his great battle cry. Rich dark blood poured from the 4 puncture wounds down the handle of the tool onto the hands of the man.<\/p>\n

\"Hobble<\/a><\/p>\n

The tools were returned as silently as they had left, washed clean in the clear waters of the creek. Nothing remained to tell the story of the hunt save sodden shoes on the doorstep, a reddish glint in certain eyes, and bleached bones on the shores of Hobble Creek.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A sudden splurge of motion rattles the shed. The dust stirs with a clatter of feet, stifled laughter, and scraping tools. The dust settles. Silence returns. All is as it was, except for the digging fork missing from its corner. The process repeats at five or six other sheds in the neighborhood. Some grab pitchforks, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1501","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p2xIrS-od","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1501","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1501"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1501\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1508,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1501\/revisions\/1508"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1501"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1501"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blog.riley.rackliffe.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1501"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}