Happy Monday to all of you, if there’s such a thing. I suppose it can’t be much lamer than the weekend I just had, but anyways… For those of you who don’t know, I write fiction as well as media stuff and this blog, which is actually stranger than fiction sometimes. You can check out some of my fiction that’s been published online at www.commuterlit.com. Just look for my name in the author’s list and you’ll find my stuff.
This week I thought I’d try something different. Lately I’ve been working on a fictional character that I’d like to get published in outdoor magazines. His name is Lucky Tom, a guide from northern New Brunswick who is a bit on the sarcastic side, especially when his clients aren’t the sharpest tools in the drawer. Here’s one of his adventures, I hope you all like it and I welcome your comments, both positive and negative…
Lucky Tom and the Moose Hunt
I could hear ’em coming. Not too far through the trees. It’s a four
wheel drive, I can tells by the sound of the tires on the dirt road.
City slickers with their fancied up SUV. They thinks having a truck
and some guns makes ’em modern day Daniel Boones. I know the type.
I’m Lucky Tom, hunting guide out here in Northern New Brunswick. For twenty years I been chasing every critter that moves and gets ’em all. The hardest part for me is keeping the greenhorns in line that hires me for these hunts.
“Where did you thinks you was going?” I wonders to meself, “the car
show?” I sticks out me hand. “Lucky Tom.” I says.
“I’m Jerry.” the driver answers as he shakes me hand. “Do you have
our moose tied up already?”
His buddies John and Charles laugh as I try to count the number of
times I heard that stupid joke in me head. “There’s a bull not too
far from here.” I says. “He’s riled up, wantin’ to mate. And he won’t
be too happy when I does me bull call. Can you shoot?”
His big gut shakes like his moustache as he laughs even louder. “My
good man, I can hit the bullseye at 200 yards with my rifle at the
I can’t helps but grumble as we heads toward the bush. I hates these
one day hunts. It’s always the same thing. One moron with a license
brings a couple more with him to sees what a great hunter he is.
I gets one pay and three idiots. No wonder me beard is turning grey.
I steps quietly through the trees towards a bog where the bull
has been hanging out. The three stooges behind me are making more
racket than a whole logging crew in a canyon with an echo. I grumbles some more. Moose can’t see the best but they ain’t deaf.
I stops. The dummies piles up behind me and start yapping.
“Why are we stopping here?” Jerry asks.
“I’m going to order a double double.” I thinks to meself, “This is where the bull has been hanging about,” I whispers, “There’s a few cows about, and he wants ’em all to himself.”
“OOh!” They all says in unison like a bunch of wide eyed kindygarteners. I ignores them and gets out my birch bark moose caller. First, I puts my finger to my lips, warning them all to keep their yaps shut, then I starts calling, softly at first, then I gets louder when there’s no answer.
After a little bit, we hears it. The bull calls back angrily
across the bog. The bog water’s a steamin, and I figures he is too.
He can’t be no more than a couple hundred yards away, and he ain’t
liking the call of another bull in his neighborhood. The fun is about
to start… Part 2 will be posted tomorrow!