*This fictional piece is part of a larger collection of stories based on the past realities and imagined futures of Haiti.
Thirty days had passed; prime time to go hunting for game.
Game never comes easy. Sometimes they hide behind the mountains, behind the mahogany trees; blending their coats with the bark. Or they take slumber in the far reaching caverns. Yet, that's the fun in hunting for game: it's a game of hide and seek, but the hunter has the traps, maps, and relentless desire to up the trophy case. The game only has two feet and two hands.
This game was captured after 30 days of tracking. The hot water was prepped; like lobster, they need to be alive. The tar simmered for six hours, ready to be poured on top. The feathers handpicked by son from the Trogon. The feathers placed immaculately by daughter, unperturbed by the wailing game.
The game dries and dies for three nights, while wife prepares the trophy room for display.
Friends gather, cigar in mouth ready for the reveal. Father proudly picks up the newspaper and reads "Jean Jacques, maroon. 5"10, 155 lbs, brown eyes, and two Fleur de Lis upon right and left shoulders. Missing for 30 days. If found, unwanted and at the mercy of the trackers."
Cheers are heard from the crowd and "oos and ahhs" as the curtain falls and reveals the white and red contrasts with simmering green, purple, and blue feathers.
"That was anti-climatic" A man said, "I use peacock feathers and I have the game on the fields, not in my trophy room. Hmpf, my last maroon was 420 days ago."