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A Hunter on the Solstice

6 January 2014

A renowned beast hunter once sat wearily at the edge of a forest road with the body of her latest trophy. She herself was a trophy room, a part of every kill stayed within her. Sometimes they would move behind her eyes and speak to her or through her. It was quite frightening when this happened.

And it was most frightening on this longest of nights, when the sun was not there to chase away the ghosts.

But being perseverant as well as brave, the hunter let each spectre tell its story. Every story we tell ourselves, we rewrite from the last recollection. We’re good at replaying.

It was painful, but the years were burning off her now. At length, she found her ghosts could not haunt her if she greeted each as an old friend reminding her of who she was. In the rewriting, the hunter did not need to berate herself to feel worthy of her gifts and deeds, or guilty at each missed spear throw.  Each phantom filled in a blank up until that moment.

“So that’s how it happens,” the hunter thought to herself as dawn approached.

“What a beautiful beginning.”

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