Saturday, May 12, 2012

Anger Games

The three of us were crouched behind a bush waiting for our prey. We tried to be as still as possible but with the sweltering heat and a cloud of hungry mosquitoes hovering around us, our efforts were all in vain. It had been almost two hours and our clothes were sopping wet. Every so often one of us would wander to look for other game or just to get a much needed relief from our stake out.

Our friend, Bong Tarat-tarat, decided to hunt for the Peeta with a red belly. He would imitate the mournful call of that skulking creature in an effort to lure it out from its hiding place. But the Peeta never appeared.

My life partner, Osintiang Lupa, used her sharp ears to locate the intermittently calling Mang Groblu catcher of flies. She would find it and would motion for me to come but by the time I arrived to take a shot at it, it would be gone.

That made Osintiang angry.

Most of the time, though, I, Kainis Poreber, remained behind the bush, patiently waiting for the Assy Thrash to appear.

After a long, patience-draining watch, I saw something hopping amidst the dark undergrowth. I silently called my partners. Bong and myself aimed our weapons at the moving shadowlike figure. We were about to shoot when a boisterous crowd suddenly appeared at the trailhead sending our quarry back under the cover of darkness. We glared at the group who completely ignored us and went on talking so loud as if they were watching a rock concert.

That made Bong angry.

The fact that this scenario happened so many times made me wonder why these people, who were walking in the middle of a serene forest, had to talk and laugh in such an inconsiderate manner despite seeing us diligently stalking some avian game.

That made me angry.

For the umpteenth time, we were once again at our post, hoping against hope that we would for once, get the Assy Thrash without being disturbed by mindless babblers. Bong and I knew how difficult it would be to capture that bird in that particular environment. We have set our weapons to manual – to depend on automatic could result in heartbreaking failure – for we may never get another chance again.

Then it appeared. Osintiang perked her ears and made sure no noisy interruptors were approaching. We fired away.

Our anger had subsided.

Now we are pleased.

The characters and creatures portrayed in this story are all fictional. Any similarities with an actual person or animal, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.

Or not.

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