Worry

graphix: spwilcen

A bit of Flash Fiction: NSFW for violence violence

Worry

I’m a worrier. Always have been, prone to worry over insignificant things that sometimes haven’t happened, usually don’t.  Let me get worries sorted out, perturbances put to rest, lay down to rest myself, and my brain will jerk me out of deep sleep with some new nonsense it considers worry-worthy. Yeah, I’m a worrier.

Like last week.  Albert Flynn, neighbor farmer south of me, said he’d made a quick bundle renting his part of our adjoined woodlots to a city slicker hunter.  Al said he didn’t know the man, but the guy paid outrageous cash for one day’s hunting.  Al took his money.

That set me to worrying.  What if this city slicker didn’t understand where Al’s woods ended or worse, was one of those types who don’t care for boundaries?  See, I pasture a few cattle north of my half of the woodlot. Guy goes too far north he might get all excited and shoot one of my steers thinking it a mule deer. Or not caring it’s not one.

Sure enough.  I was on my utility tractor headed into the woods to haul firewood home.  My Winchester was in the cab.  In these parts it pays to worry over wolves or a rare black bear. Just inside my woodlot, six hundred yards from Al’s property line, a hunter held up a giant oak at the edge of the sizeable swamp.  As far as hunting goes it made good sense.  Deer run the swamp perimeter regularly. The guy and I didn’t get off to a good “howdy-do” start.

“Hunting, are ya?” I asked. We weren’t lodge brothers, so I had to start somewhere, trying to be civil.

“Yeah, got permission from the guy that owns this woods.”  His tone was nasty, rather openly confrontational, saying a whole lot of ‘So what?’ without saying it.  He clearly had a chip on his shoulder and a ‘Beat it Rube’ attitude.

“Actually, you’re not on Al’s property, you’re on mine.”

“So what?” The way he said it made it sound worse than I’d imagined before he said it.

“So, you ain’t got permission here. Like to ask you to leave.”

The cocky ass laughed. “I’ll hunt where I damned-well please!” 

To scare the living bejesus out of me, the fool pointed his rifle at me. I was worried he might shoot.  I wasn’t worried over what I’d do.  Yep, shot him right there. The swamp dig was easy.  Buried his sorry ass deep. I wasn’t worried about discovery.  The swap doesn’t easily tell its secrets.  It doesn’t like to be disturbed and heals wounds scratched into its flesh quickly.

I found the man’s car at Al’s property line.  Drove it until it ran out of gas, just across the county line. Parked it near someone else’s woods that looked huntable. On the long walk to my tractor, I got to thinking. The swap would hold on pretty tight to the body, but maybe someone would come looking.

That got me to worrying.

© SPWilcenski 2022

spwilcenwrites 2/7/2022