The men hunted. The hunting was good, a manly hunting, a good thing. The men took their dogs. The dogs were brown and gold and black and green and cyan, beautiful dogs, the colors of the fall. The dogs were good. The men were going after game, game being a manly thing to hunt. One of the men was from the War. The War had not been good--there had been neither game nor fish. Nor had there been love. But it did not matter, since love was not to be. There had been loud explosions and death and despair.
The men were stoic as they had headed out. They had shown no emotion. The Veteran took liquor from his flask. He unscrewed the top with his pale hands and drank from it. The liquor was good. It had been a long, hard winter, and there was not much game in the forest. The game was scarce. Like love. The men took out there guns.
"I see no game"
"Neither do I"
"This is not good"
Things were not manly. This was bad. The men conferenced with each other. It was a conference of brotherhood. They talked of game and boxing and hunting and fishing. But although they were manly, they could not agree. This was bad as well.
THE END
Gentlemen, I give you Ernest Hemingway.