Jacob sits by the camp-fire, rifle cocked, listening to the noises in the tent.
Hell knows, it never took me this long, he thinks.
The couple emerge from the tent, the guy startled when he sees Jacob, whilst the woman smiles.
“In you get, hon,” says Jacob, jerking his head in the direction of the truck.
His wife obeys, blowing him a kiss.
“Now run, boy…”
The man flees, like a frightened rabbit.
Jacob is a gentle soul; in his world everyone deserves fufillment, each in their own way.
He speaks softly into his phone.
“Quarry scented, hunt is on.”
Up in the frozen north of England, in a hotel room with ony half the light bulbs working (yet again), we’re finally engaging in the last Friday Fictioneers for January. We’re getting there… thanks Rochelle.