The first installment of the 8 Minute Writing Habit.
With a zing the bullet zipped past my shoulder and lodged itself into a tree, sending a shower of wooden shards in a little cloud in front of me. From my experience in the war my muscles reacted before my mind new what the sound was and I immediately dropped into the knee high snow.
I looked over the snow trying to gauge where the bulleted come from. It had come from behind me where I stood, somewhere up on the ridge but I could not make out exactly the location of the shooter. I took a few deep breaths, slowing my heart until the blood pumping through my veins no longer reverberate it in my ear drums. Then I peeked over the snow again.
My brother, before he had been killed in the war, had always said I was the luckiest son of a b**** that ever walked the earth. I tend to agree with him. Upon the slope I noticed the slight glint of the Sun reflecting off of something metal. Now, I knew where the attack had come from.
I crawled through the snow pushing it aside with my hat as I went, and ensuring my ass never went above the snow. The shooter was above me so he might be able to discern my location and that I was moving so as I went I fluffed the snow on top me hoping that it would cover my jacket and pants that would stand out against the white fresh snow. I only went about 10 feet, the distance to my Remington, and then set up behind the trunk of a large pine tree.
My brother used to complain that I was always preparing for the worst. Honestly, I think this is why I appear to be the luckiest person alive. My Remington was not leaning against this tree on accident, I carefully selected it spot because the large pine tree provided enough protection for me to hide around the trunk, but it also provided a good amount of concealment due to its wide branches.
I spun around slowly and inched my rifle up the ridge pointing in the general direction where I had seen the flash of light. Then I train my eyes on the location and waited. If my attacker had not seen me crawl away he would undoubtedly be thinking that lack of movement, reaction, from me meant that he had struck home.
I did not have to wait long. A minute or two later I saw a figure stand and shake snow from his clothing. Then he turned and I saw another figure at his side stand and do likewise. They both wore white smiles and shook their heads agreeably. The second figure padded the shooter on the shoulder, and that was when I pulled the trigger, followed quickly by a second shot.
My first round struck the shooter squarely in the temple and and painted the trees behind him in a misty Red Cloud of blood and gore. The second round, a little rushed, struck his companion in the jaw. The result was the same.
. . .
This story was written in just slightly over eight minutes over lunch today using the prompt "The Shot". I have started the Eight Minute Writing Habit. With this habit you try to write for eight minutes straight every day, not pausing to fix spelling or grammar and simply put words on (real or digital) paper. I plan on continuing this 'challenge' until it becomes a habit. If you would like to join me, post wherever you like and add #8MWH on your post and let me know in the comments or on Google+.
Word count: 522