The Velvet Underground

Sitting on a rickety wooden folding chair in an empty room with a wooden floor painted thirty years prior a lovely shagbark brown, I stare out into the fields. Nothing is happening but I stare. Tiny veins of ice creep along the corners of the glass, trying desperately to recreate the beauty of a snowflake but instead reminding one of the unfinished web of a house spider. But even so, I stare beyond. I stare at snow covered plains and skeletons of trees which shed their leaves in exchange for blankets of white on their arms. Oddly, the stillness of the scene reminds me of a song by The Velvet Underground and I decide it would make a good soundtrack. In the distance, a few cars attempt to navigate the windswept roads. The entire scenario fades in and out of focus mostly from the steam of my breath hitting the window and maybe a bit from my lack of sleep of late. Days of silence pays off. As the deer grazed unknowingly, a mere 85 yards from my post, I eased open the pane of glass, spilling cold air into the already not-so-warm arena I had been sitting. I lowered my M1903A4 Springfield rifle, my companion, my friend, the only thing I trusted anymore, and peered through the Weaver Model 330C 2.2x telescopic sight and followed the crosshairs directly behind the shoulder of the beast. My lungs stopped filling with air and my finger started to squeeze lightly. I held both my eyes open and soon a crack filled the air. My target dropped instantly. Its two companions began shouting in a language I would never understand and quickly hid behind blockades. I quickly backed away from the frozen window and realized what had actually taken place. I shuffled to relocate to two windows over, taking aim with the nose of my rifle a full yard behind the window frame. I knew I would have to drop the remaining animals before I could collect dogtags.

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