My sister and I are sharing stories using a book she purchased called write the story. We are going to pick a story on Sunday and then share it on Thursday. Let me know if you want to join in!
“The main character witnesses a crime.”
We must include the following in our story: Christmas, almond, paisley, lion, pipe, scream, fade, French horn, inflate, maple.
A limb tore through my jacket cutting my right shoulder as I pushed the brush back trying to follow the scream. The cold air made it difficult to breathe; I leaned against an Acacia tree and let my lungs inflate. This is not how I imagined my first Christmas in Africa would unfold.
The sound of a French horn blasted through the morning air confirming my greatest fear. The lion’s reserve had opened the gates to big game hunters for the weekend, and the hunt was on. I joined an animal activist group shortly after Cecil’s death by the dentist trophy hunter and spent my summers on the reserve hoping to make a difference. Cecil’s death sparked outrage around the world, and we wanted to keep the momentum going with campaigns. I had expected that lion hunting would become illegal and all the lions here would live out their remaining years in peace. This morning’s scream told me that was a pipe dream.
I heard several more roars. Damn it; they had the pride cornered. A chill ran through me. Not my sweet Paisley, please not Paisley. She was my favorite lion. I thought of her soft sandy-colored fur and her amber eyes. She had an unusual almond coloring around her face that had a paisley pattern; it is how she got her name. We were not supposed to feed them table scraps, but she loved pancakes and maple syrup so occasionally I left her a tidbit on my plate. Another roar rang through the air and seemed to fade, or rather was drowned out by a piercing scream. A human cry. I ran towards the sound as fast as my legs could carry me.
I made it to the clearing and stopped short. The hunt was on, but it was three female lions that were doing the hunting. Elijah, a retired game warden, had four trophy hunters tied up in the clearing. He was standing on the roof of his jeep holding a small French horn watching the lions close in on the hunters. He met my gaze and lowered his eyes like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In unison, the lions pounced on the hunters tearing them limb from limb. I covered my ears to drown out the screams and moved backward as two male lions joined the feast. I made my way back to camp and hoped that I could look surprised when the news spread through the reserve.