Flash Fiction: The Hunter

From her position, she can see the garden. Cars, lorries, bicycles, they all whizz past. Her perch allows her to track any prey foolhardy enough to enter her kill zone - although kill zone is a grand title for a patch of grass.

The sun beats down on her black hair, a welcome distraction from the damp grass she waits on. She stretches out, her feet pushing into the mud behind her. Not a clear day - no good for sunbathing, but the wind and the rustling leaves make a good distraction for a hunt.

On days like these, all she ever does is wait.

Now - movement.

She squashes herself down to the ground, the grass swallowing her up and hiding her. A small flock of birds, she isn’t sure what type, lands in front of her. They peck at the earth, looking for bugs and worms rushing to the surface from the previous night’s rain. A perfect trap.

She pounces.

The birds hear her coming, but too late. The grass shielded her, the rustling distracting them.

Her victim struggles, flapping, squawking, and cawing. She held on as the pair of them rolled around, the wet grass and flowers splashing water around them.

Her teeth sink into its neck, and eventually, it falls still.

A puddle of blood forms in her mouth, and she spits it out. Not time to eat yet. First, she has to show the family.

Behind her, she hears the front door open. An old woman dressed head to toe in black leans toward her. Her long black dress is dusty from the housework, her pointed black hat bent over at the top from ducking under the cupboards.

“Is that you?” the old woman says.

The Hunter stands, victim squeezed between her teeth. The dead bird hangs from the neck, lifeless, feathers falling from the wounds. The old woman’s expression softens.

“What a racket. I thought the world was coming to an end.” She steps back.

The Hunter steps over the threshold, shrugging.

“I was just practising,” she says.