For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.

photo by Raúl Nájera via Unsplash


The hunters read the notice and laughed, arrogant, derisive laughter, because they were hunters and they respected no rules but the ones they made themselves.

There were deer in the woods, hare and pheasant in the broad glades, and game was game, wherever it hid.

Shouldering their rifles they climbed the fence and jumped, clearing the brambles and landing in the concealed trench filled with razor wire, their screaming drawing from the tree shadows, the waiting wolf pack.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

25 thoughts on “Boobies”

  1. In Pennsylvania (probably elsewhere), for hunters there is a difference in paying attention to the signs and not. If they don’t attend, then they deserve the consequences. I hear wolves might be reintroduced into the state. We already have razor wire.

    Yours is a tale of utter, satisfying (did I just say that?) retribution. Outstanding.

    1. I’m glad you don’t disapprove of the message. The hunters here are territorial. They carve up the regions into local groups and unless the mayor opposes it (which they rarely do) they consider the whole area their playground, no matter whose back garden it happens to include.

    1. It’s a sort of hobby, playing vigilante. I think the leaders of the free world who might stumble into a trench of razor wire would probably not need a pack of wolves to finish them off.

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