Prologue: The Hunting Trip (Daniel Cassidy)

A fateful hunting trip that changed the lives of one family forever.

September, 1998

I’ve been hunting for most of my life. My grandfather was a hunter, and so was my father. I was five years old the first time my father took me out into the woods to shoot at rabbits and wild turkey. Over the years I've acquired quite a few trophies. The walls of the house I share with my wife, two sons, and infant daughter are crowded with impressive antlers, and I have several bear rugs. There is almost nothing I won't hunt.

            I prefer to go out alone. My father always brought his buddies along with him, but I’m more of a loner. For a long time my parents feared I wouldn't wed. They were relieved when I met Sarah.

            She and I are admittedly an odd match. She's opposed to hunting. It isn't because she's a vegetarian; she eats meat voraciously; but she doesn't approve of my hobby. I mainly hunt deer, and there is an overpopulation of them in the area in which we live, yet she scolds me for taking away the natural predators’ food source. She made me swear that I'll never hunt a wolf. It was an odd request, but I promised her that I wouldn't.

            Sarah is, in many ways, the perfect housewife. She cooks and cleans and raises our boys. She never complains about how often my work and hunting keeps me away. She has a fiery temper, though. She is quick to anger, and not nearly as swift to calm. Once, in a fit of rage, she lashed out at me and scratched my face. The pain was blinding. I stumbled into the bathroom and gasped in shock at my own reflection. Five bleeding claw marks marred my right cheek. The cuts were deep, and I knew they'd require stitches. I'd grabbed the towel that was hanging and pressed it against my cheek.

            Sarah had come into the bathroom then, her expression apologetic. When I'd asked her to drive me to a hospital, however, she'd adamantly refused. I'd stormed out of the house and climbed into my truck. I'd attempted to drive myself to the hospital, but I'd passed out and crashed. My injuries had been life threatening, and I'd been airlifted to the hospital. I'd awoken a week later. Sarah had been at my bedside, clutching my hand in hers.

            Our marriage almost didn’t survive. After I was sent home, however, she nursed me back to health, and I decided to forgive her for the sake of our boys. I still have five jagged scars, and everywhere I go I catch people staring at them, likely wondering what kind of animal could leave such marks.

            It wasn't long after the accident that Sarah suggested we have a third child. Our eldest son, Christian, was weeks away from his sixteenth birthday, and our younger one, Jaden, was four months shy of being an official teenager. They were both born on the thirty first; Christian on August thirty first of nineteen eighty two, and Jaden on December thirty first of nineteen eighty five. I like to say that Christian was my early birthday present; my twenty fifth birthday was three days after his arrival; and that Jaden was my late Christmas present.

            Sarah and I agreed early on in our marriage to have just two children, and I was satisfied with our two boys. She seemed to be, too. That's why I was so surprised when she started begging me for another child. To please her, I eventually agreed. It didn't take us long to conceive. Sarah didn't want the sex to be revealed prior to the birth.

            Her third pregnancy wasn't as easy as her first two were. She went into labor at seven and a half months and our daughter, Molly, was born via caesarian section on March fourteenth of nineteen ninety eight. Our baby girl spent her first month of life in the hospital.

            I’ve loved my daughter from the moment I first heard her cry. It was the moment I realized that something had been missing from our family, but that it was now complete. I spent every day she was in the NICU by her side. They wouldn't let me hold her; she was too tiny; but I sang her lullabies, and held her little hand in mine.

            I thought Sarah would be frantic with worry over our daughter's condition, especially after how hard she fought to have her, but she seemed reluctant to visit little Molly. When she was sent home, Sarah refused to breastfeed as the nurses recommended; and as she had with Christian and Jaden. She didn't even want to hold our newborn. After Molly was sent home, Sarah left most of her care to me. When Molly would cry, Sarah would reach up, cover her ears, and grimace.

            I haven't been hunting since Molly's birth, and I am reluctant to go. I'm hesitant to leave Molly alone with my wife in a way I never was with our boys. But the boys have been pestering me to take them out hunting again.

            When Molly is six months old, I agree to take them out for a three day camping trip, during which we will hunt deer. I have an old RV that can be attached to the back of my truck. The night before we leave, I ask our kindly elder neighbors Marty and Annette to check in on Sarah and Molly every night while we’re gone. They readily agree, as I knew they would. I offer them a hundred dollars in cash, but they politely decline.

            The next morning we set out. Sarah objected to the trip, not wanting to be left to care for Molly by herself. Our sons' excitement in regards to the trip, however, eventually managed to convince her. However she feels about our daughter, there is no denying that she cares deeply for our sons. Their happiness is of the utmost importance to her, Christian's especially. She has a special place in her heart for our firstborn.

            The first two nights of the hunting trip proceed smoothly. Neither Christian or Jaden hits anything, but they both thoroughly enjoy themselves none the less. I try to beat back my worry, but I think they can sense it. Christian seems uneasy being away from his sister, too. He hovers over her. He's a teenage boy with his own friends and a steady girlfriend, but he spends a surprising amount of time at home, helping me to care for Molly.

            On the third night of our trip, we retire early to bed. Tomorrow we have a long drive home. Christian and Jaden fall asleep rather quickly. My boys are extremely close, and they don't mind having to share a bed. I curl up on the couch. I can't sleep. I'm eager to return home to my baby girl.

            I am just drifting off to sleep when a bone chilling howl jars me out of semi-consciousness. My eyes snap open, and I bolt up into a sitting position. I glance over at my sons, who are very deep sleepers. Both are still sound asleep. Christian is sprawled out on the bed on top of the blanket, his mouth agape, and snoring softly. Jaden is curled up in a ball beneath the blanket, with one of Christian's arms draped loosely over him. His face is buried in one of the pillows. I smile at my sons; at how young and innocent they look in their sleep.

            Another howl causes me to shiver. I peer out the open window, but it is too dark to see anything. There is a scratching at the RV's door, and I stiffen. I rise from my makeshift bed and grab my shotgun. Praying that my boys remain asleep, I burst through the door, my rifle raised, and prepared to shoot.

            The RV's door slams shut behind me, causing me to irrationally jump. I look wildly about. Seeing nothing, I almost retreat back inside. Then there is another howl, and the pained cry of a wounded animal. I stalk silently into the trees, my eyes darting in search of the threat. The full moon high in the sky offers my only source of light, and I curse myself under my breath for not thinking to bring my flashlight.

            Another howl rips through the air, and I follow the sound of it. It is easily distinguishable as the cry of a wolf. I promised my wife I'd never harm one, but I can't allow anything to threaten my sons' safety.       

            I expect to hear the howls of other wolves as well. I know that they hunt in packs. But I hear only the one. That is curious, and alerts me right away that something is amiss.

            I come into a clearing and stop abruptly. I almost drop my rifle. I shake in my boots. In the middle of the clearing, where earlier that evening Christian, Jaden, and I roasted marshmallows over a fire and made s'mores, is an enormous brown-gray female wolf. She is at least three times as large as the biggest wolf I saw when I was a boy hunting alongside my father.

            She doesn’t notice me at first. She's chomping down on a deer's carcass, tearing chunks of flesh away and gnashing them in her sharp canines before swallowing.

            I stand frozen in place, rooted to the spot. The wolf sniffs at the air, her nostrils flaring, and then, finally, she slowly raises her head. Her beaming yellow eyes land on me. What strange eyes, I think. Despite their color, they look almost human.

            She opens her jowls; her muzzle is matted with the deer's blood; and growls menacingly.

             Gathering my courage, I raise my shotgun. My arms are shaking as I fire the bullet. It hits the wolf in her left eye, and the animal emits a yelp. She loses her footing for a moment, but catches herself before she falls, and shakes her head, dislodging the bullet. A trail of blood streaks from her eye. Her growl grows louder and she lungs at me as I watch in wide eyed horror.

            I should try to run, though it would be pointless, as the beast is undoubtedly faster than I am. I should scream, but when I open my mouth, only a squeak of terror bursts forth.

            In the next instant the wolf is on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I struggle weakly. Her claws rip the sleeves of my shirt and bite painfully into my flesh.

            She lowers her head so that her nose is nearly touching mine. Hot saliva drips down onto my face, and I flinch. Her yellow eyes stare down at me. Up close, they look startling familiar. In that instant, I recognize her. Her eyes are the same, even if they're a different color.

            I open my mouth to whisper her name as her jaws enclose on my throat. Panic seizes me. Not for myself, but for my children. I think of Christian and Jaden, sleeping unaware back in the RV. I think of my six month old daughter, Molly, back home; defenseless and alone. What will become of them? Their faces flash in my mind.

            Christian, who is tall and muscular from his weight training for his high school's football team, and who has a crooked nose from where he took a ball to the face. My eldest son who looks so much like me, with his sandy blonde hair, and sea blue-green eyes.

            Jaden, who is lankier than his brother, and who has a shy smile, and saggy bronze hair. My younger son who looks so much like my wife.

            Molly, my only daughter, who like Jaden resembles Sarah, with her full head of dark curls, small hands, chubby cheeks, and hazel eyes.

            They're beautiful eyes. The eyes I fell in love with when I was just eighteen years old. Shades of brown with flecks of gold and vivid green rings around the pupils.

            They're also the last things I see before her jaws clamp down.

 

Reviews

[Christopher Miller]

The story is off to an interesting start. I had a feeling about Sarah since her affinity for wolves was mentioned, but her insistence on, then aversion to, her daughter is certainly a mystery. That and her not wanting to know the baby's sex until birth.
The night scene in the RV leaves some questions. Why did he feel the need to investigate, when he heard wolves? That shouldn't be so unexpected, in the woods. Why did he feel they were a threat to his sons? They ought to have been safe inside of an RV.
He mentions holding a rifle, later it's a shotgun. Then the shotgun fires a bullet, not pellets. If she were hit in the eye, I'd think the bullet would penetrate too far to be 'dislodged'. If her body manages to expel foreign bodies, I'd think there would be a note of amazement on his part.
Her eyes are brown again at the end of the chapter, and there's some difficulty with a first person narrator dying.
But overall, as I read I could see the story happening, I'm interested to read more. Just some details need ironing out.

[JayG]

• I’ve been hunting for most of my life. My grandfather was a hunter, and so was my father.

This is a history lesson, an essay that follows someone saying, “So tell me a little about yourself.” But a reader is looking for story, told in real time, so realistically that it feels like we’re living the scene. That entertains. But think about it. I don’t know the age or gender of the speaker. I don’t know where we are in time or space. I don’t know them as a person. We’ll know she’s his wife when he treats her like one. We don’t need their history. You do, to know how they react to situations, but the reader needs to know only what matters to the protagonist in that moment of time they call now.

Given that, why would I want to hear a detailed history of this person? Were this to appear on an acquiring editor’s desk as a submission it would be rejected before the end of the first paragraph because the story doesn’t begin for 1147 words, or five manuscript pages after we begin reading. Five manuscript pages of history and nothing has happened in the story.

In fact, the story doesn’t begin till: “I am just drifting off to sleep when a bone chilling howl jars me out of semi-consciousness. “ So that’s where I’ll begin, as you try to hook a reader who is seeking to be entertained by being made to have an emotional experience, not learn the details of the plot progression.

• Christian is sprawled out on the bed on top of the blanket, his mouth agape, and snoring softly. Jaden is curled up in a ball beneath the blanket, with one of Christian's arms draped loosely over him. His face is buried in one of the pillows. I smile at my sons; at how young and innocent they look in their sleep.

So a frightening sound occurs, bringing the man fully awake. And instead of thinking, “What the hell was that?” he takes inventory of how his kids look in sleep?

Sorry, but there appears to be danger, so he’d be thinking in terms of their safety and what to do next, not how cute they look asleep.

But that would be his viewpoint. In yours, you’re viewing the situation in the video playing in your mind, and describing what YOU visualize, not what has his attention. And bear in mind that a moment later it’s too dark to see outside, so how can he see the kids?

Being in your viewpoint has two results. Since you’re telling the story from outside-in, so to speak, the telling will be dispassionate because we can’t hear the emotion in your voice, or see your expression and gestures. You can tell us hoe he speaks a liner, but not how you would speak as the narrator.

Next, in your viewpoint plot is king. So when he needs to do something the plot requires you don’t consult him, you dictate his behavior. In this case, you wanted to describe the scene in the RV, so instead of thinking about what should matter to him, and what to do, he turns dumb and looks around, smiling.

Remember, changing all the “he’s” to “I” does not magically turn telling into showing.

• I burst through the door, my rifle raised, and prepared to shoot.

Minor point: we already know whose gun it is, so “my” is clutter.

• The RV's door slams shut behind me, causing me to irrationally jump.

The door on RVs aren’t on heavy springs, and if it slammed loud enough to startle him wouldn’t it wake the kids?

This bit doesn’t work for me. Has the man no flashlight? We’ve been told he can’t see because it’s too dark. He heard an animal scratching at the door. Would anyone in their right mind go out there with no light? Would you?

• The full moon high in the sky offers my only source of light, and I curse myself under my breath for not thinking to bring my flashlight.

A moment ago it was too dark to see. Now there’s bright moonlight?

At this point, the story is out of control. I wish I didn’t have to say it, because you write well, but your character is not behaving as someone a reader would want to identify with. We have an animal trying to get into the RV, but moments later it’s off eating a deer it killed? This is a minute later, so it makes no sense, and seems you’re just making things happen for effect without a reasonability check.

You have a bullet enter the wolf’s eye, which is a kill-shot into the brain. Forget that he couldn’t see what he hit in the low light, or see the bullet fall out, the wolf shakes the bullet out through the eye? Magically heal, as werewolves supposedly do, perhaps. But have a bullet that’s passed into the brain fall out? What does it think with? And you that happen without the man saying, “Holy crap what just happened? And, the wolf has yellow eyes that are the same as someone he knew who had brown eyes?

No reader will buy that because it makes no sense. But you placed it in because the plot required it in order to work, even if it makes no sense from your protagonist’s viewpoint.

To get your story under control you need to tell it from the inside out, in the viewpoint of the character on the scene, not from the storyteller’s viewpoint. And that’s a skill we’re not taught in our school days because it’s professional knowledge of use only to a fiction writer—and there’s a lot of things to learn.

Bear in mind that everything I said has nothing to do with your writing talent and potential, and it’s not about good or bad writing. It’s about craft, the learned part of the profession.

I like your writing, and I say that damn seldom. But at the moment you’re using a toolset that’s inappropriate to the medium, and it’s causing all kind of problems. So that’s what you need to fix.

As Mark Twain observed, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” And at this point, you’re being held back by lots of. “just ain’t so.”

So, some suggestions. For what I mean by inside-out, try this: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2015/05/13/inside-out-the-grumpy-writing-coach/

And for why it matters, move to the next article, on mirroring.

Then look at this article on presenting a strong POV.
http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php

It’s one that takes some thinking about. But chew on it for a bit till it make sense. Look at a modern book that made you feel you were living the story as you read, and see how the author made use of the technique. And if it makes sense, pick up a copy of the book the article was based on, Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It’s the best I’ve found to date.

But whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Haley Lynn Thomas]

Thank you. I really appreciate your feedback. I hope that you might continue to read the story? I am really looking for thorough feedback like this. If you're too busy or not interested then I understand. I do not have time right now to work on the novel as I'm a full time student and part time worker but when I go back to the story I will take into account all reviews I receive. I'm going to continue to post it as is for now because, again, I simply don't have time right now to work on it.
Thank you again, for your honest review.

Haley