Take your time, the clutter must be tossed aside for you to really appreciate the evil of Todd. Now replace that discarded clutter with the image of a frog. Yes, just your average, garden variety hopper. Do you see it yet? It is important that you actually see the frog in your mind. You see it now? Good. Let that frog take up your entire mind's eye. Yeah, that's it. Now let's get started, shall we? Imagine now, a string tied to one of the frog's hind legs. The string is a foot long, the other end tied to a stick. That stick has been pushed down into the muddy ground. Already, this feels so wrong, doesn't it?
  A shadow is suddenly blanketing the frog as Todd's hand is reaching down and lifting the creature, causing the hind leg and stick to pull tight as the stick is yanked from the mud. Todd is raising the frog so he can study it close.

 Just how scared is the frog? Is it terrified? Todd figures it is. He also figures he can scare it to death. Cool. Standing on the shore of the family's private pond is Todd, smiling over another one of his endless twisted thoughts.

 He is still holding the frog as he is reaching down with his other hand to pick up a box of plastic zip-lock sandwich bags. Before continuing his sick behavior, Todd is turning, looking at the house fifty yards away. He can see his father watching him from the kitchen window. Todd is not happy about it.

  “Stupid fossil.”

  In the kitchen is Rick and Paula. Rick staring at Todd through the window and Paula staring at Rick from her chair at the kitchen table. 

  “He's looking at me right now, Paula.”

  “He is your son, you know.”

  “Adopted son.”

  “There's a distinction?”

  “He's got my golf cooler out there.”

  “Rick!?”

  “What?”

  “Todd is your son.”

  “No getting around that”

  “Don't talk like that. We knew he was very intelligent when we adopted him. The doctor told us he would be difficult at times.”
   “He’s creeping me out, Paula”

   “You’re overreacting.”

   

  “To what? The dead rodent collection I found last week? Heard a lot of serial killers start with small animals. Then they kill somebody close to home.” 

   Rick is now in the driveway, loading his golf clubs into the trunk of his sixty-thousand-dollar car while he is watching Todd down at the pond. Todd is crouching over Rick's golf cooler, reaching inside for something. Rick is now in his car, taking one more look at Todd before pulling out of the driveway. Inside the house, Paula is washing the dishes while watching Todd, who is now throwing stones into the pond. Are they stones? Paula is looking harder out the window. Whatever Todd is throwing into the pond is floating on the surface in a sick sort of way. Paula is now heading out the back door, moving toward the pond.

“Todd?” 

 No reply. Todd is still tossing what now look like plastic bags filled with... 

  “What are you doing, Todd?”

 Todd is glancing back at Paula, then turning away, tossing another bag on the surface of the pond. There are nearly a dozen bags floating. Paula is now ten feet from Todd, slowing to a stop as she stares out over the water. Each bag has a frog sealed inside. Some of the frogs are struggling inside the bags, the rest not moving at all. Paula is standing with her mouth hanging open. Todd is turning to Paula with a smile, holding a bagged frog.

  “Catch”

   Todd is throwing the bagged frog to Paula, who is catching it, looking from frog to Todd.

  “When they croak, I can just throw the bags in the garbage.”

Avid Hunter

The season they shoulda
gone snowmobiling.

​

What started out to be a fairly decent day in the woods was turning out to be more than just a disappointment. First of all, it was colder. Damper too. When Roy and Sam first left the cabin, it was a few minutes after noon, the temperature nearly forty. Now, what started out as a calm, mostly sunny day, had slowly changed to heavy clouds and a chilling breeze. Roy figured the temperature was around freezing, maybe colder. Not only that, twilight was tugging at their elbows, promising to drop the temperature much further.

Roy was pissed off to no end. 
The truth is, Roy's annoyance was nothing new. He and Sam had known each other for over twenty years, ever since meeting at Horace Mann junior high school. They had a lot in common back then. Both hated math and English, both were afraid of girls and both had a fascination with firearms. Unfortunately for Roy, Sam was an obnoxious know-it-all, prone to getting them both in trouble.
  “You know,” Roy started, unable to hide his frustration. “I could see it, maybe, if this was the last day of the season.”
  “Hey, I hit it,.” Sam snapped.
 Sam led the way along the deer trail, tracking the blood of a wounded buck. Roy stared at the doe permit pinned to the back of   Sam's blaze-orange coat, pushing his irritation just a bit further. 

 After all, Roy was the one with the buck permit, not Sam. Yet here they were, tracking a wounded buck for the last forty-five minutes. A buck that Sam shot from too far away.
  “If you woulda waited, you woulda got a better shot, dumb ass.”
  “Right, Roy. You woulda waited.”

  “That's right, I woulda. And we wouldn't be freezing our asses off right now, tracking a grazed buck.”
  Sam swung around to Roy, the barrel of his rifle passing across Roy's midsection. Accidentally, of course. “Grazed my ass.”
  “You grazed it, Sam.”
  “Up yours.”
 Roy knew he shouldn't keep pushing his friend. Things tended to escalate when Sam felt cornered. 

 Once, Sam punched Roy in the eye after being caught in a lie about flunking the second grade. It was a stupid lie, considering Roy knew all about it and Sam knew he knew. That was Sam in a nutshell. Roy was well aware he should let it drop, but damn! It was freezing out there!
  “If you didn't graze it,” Roy egged further. “How come we been tracking it for the last eighty-seven thousand miles?”
  “Hey, go back to the cabin if you're gonna be a baby about it.”
  “You'd get lost.”
 Sam stopped, pointing down at the blood trail.

  “Check it out.”
 The blood trail, which for so long had been hit and miss and sometimes hard to follow, had now turned into disturbing pools. 

 Sam turned to Roy with a sneer.
  “Looks like more than a graze to me,” Sam bragged.
  “Looks more like it got shot again,” Roy countered.
  “I didn't hear any shots.”
 “Who are you kidding, Sam? We been hearing shots all day long.”
  “Fuck!” Sam barked. “Come on, let's pick up the pace.”
 Sam took his own advice, moving forward with new determination. Roy knew right away what was going on in Sam's head. If another hunter sunk a second bullet into Sam's buck, Sam would make damn sure he was the one to tag the stag. This could be trouble, more trouble than usual, and that was saying quite a bit.

 The blood trail was bigger now. Roy could feel there was something wrong.

 He and Sam had bagged their share of deer over the years and this was all wrong.

  “Hey, Sam. How ‘bout we turn back?”
  “Fuck you, nobody’s tagging my bu…”

 Sam’s last word died in its throat as both he and Roy stopped suddenly, a hushed gasp escaping from Roy. 

  The ground in front of them was splattered with blood, large chunks of fur and steaming innards. In the midst of the carnage was the back half of a large deer. Hanging in a nearby tree was the front half of the deer, a twelve-point buck. The buck’s throat had been savagely torn away, nearly decapitating the head. Roy and Sam were frozen where they stood for a long moment. Finally, their instincts kicked in as both men released the safeties of their rifles. 

  Sam looked at his friend, unable to hide his sudden fear.
  “Bear?” Sam asked.
  “No bear around here.”
  “Wolf?”
  “Wolf can’t do that.”
 As if on cue, they heard the distant howl of a wolf.
 “No, huh?”
  “I’m tellin’ ya,” Roy began, trying to calm both Sam and himself.    “A wolf can’t do that.”
  “What about a pack of wolves.”
  “No fuckin’ way.”

 Another wolf howl, this one closer, more distinct. How far away was it? Hard to tell in the woods.

Sounds swirled out here, Roy knew that. His mind was spinning. Not good. Not good at all.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Roy said.

 Roy turned to see Sam already running in the opposite direction. Then, somewhere close, a snapping branch. Roy spun around, ready to fire his rifle, but there was no threat to be seen. He carefully scanned the carnage in front of him, his finger on the trigger, unaware that he was mumbling to himself.