The Hunter

By: Dana Owens

Her prey was on the move again.

She watched silently, low to the ground, her keen senses alert. It came closer now, within only a trivial bounds reach, yet, it was foolish enough to creep ever nearer to its deadly stalker. She froze, not a muscle moved, not a breath escaped her. She attained a stiff resemblance to a finely carved statue, her eyes wide with anticipation, taking in every movement of the defenseless victim.

Now was the moment that would determine whether the foolish creature should live or die. If it were to move only centimeters closer, it would undoubtably know the bloody grip of death her swift claws would bring, but if it were to exercise what sense it could possibly manifest and move in the opposite direction, it could once again know the freedom that only such lowly entities could possess. Obviously, this creature had little to show in the way of instincts, for it chose, if such a thing had any will-power at all, to approach it's demise, much to her delight.

She sunk even lower to the ground, her haunches rising to retain her balance. Her tail swished noiselessly behind her and her lip curled in a vicious, yet pleasure filled snarl. Soon the taste of sweet, sweet blood would linger in her mouth, the smell of a fresh kill would fill her nostrils, enchanting her senses. If only her prey would turn . . . drop it's guard, everything could fall into play.

It was more cautious now, suddenly aware of a possible danger lurking nearby. It was unshielded here, open to anything which should try to destroy it. Instincts told it to take to the sky, but something else, prompted by fear, beckoned it to the safe, moist shadows. To fill the gap between here and there would be dangerous, but conceivably worth the risk. So it moved, slowly at first, every step bringing it closer to what had now been promoted to a virtual paradise, but gradually its pace increased, the excitement urging it forward.

She tensed, now was the moment, now she must make her move! To wait one more second would be to lose her prey. The timing must be exact, her leap must be perfect . . . She let out an spine tingling shriek and struck.

WHACK!!

The fly shriveled in death instantly upon contact. Mickey leaped to her feet and hollered in joy.

"Gotcha! Who's the man?" She raised her arms and nodded her head as if to accept a great uproar of applause. "It's a talent."

"Mickey, sit down." Donna said from the couch, not taking her eyes off the television.

"I'm so unappreciated for all the things I do for you guys. That's the last time I ever come to the rescue." She said, crossing her arms across her chest.

"It was a fly for gods sake! Now be quiet."

The hunter assessed the situation. Nothing more could be done here, she had successfully made a kill. Now a bigger, more urgent question arose; were there any Cheetos left?