All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
All locations are open today from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
Central Library is open today from 1-5 p.m. All community libraries are closed.
The Dorothy Shoemaker Awards celebrate literacy in all its forms.
This year's second place prize winner is The Hunter and His Prey, by Asha Destounis.
Read the short story with comments from this year's judge, author Catherine Bush.
by Asha Destounis
The sun peeked through the bright green trees, shining onto his back. The underbrush scraped his shins as he crept by, the weight of his pack lowering him down as his carefully silent feet approached a clearing. Vibrant flowers seemed to open wider as he trekked through the woods, the dust of nature in the air swirling around him, carrying that foreign, tingling sense of magic.
Just one fairy, and it was over. Just find and kill one little fairy, and he could go to town, sell it, go home and buy his grandma dinner. His brothers would finally clap him on the shoulder and tell him he’d done it, he’d killed it. He’d put his damned heart aside and killed the thing.
He’d be a hunter. He’d be a man.
As he warily walked on, his attentive ears were alerted to an abrupt noise. An animalistic screech in the trees above him, followed by a loud scraping on wood, and a nearby oak shook with raining leaves. Surprised, he jumped and a fern crunched underneath his heavy feet.
Quiet as the wind, that’s you, one of his brother’s voices chided, rather disapprovingly, in his head. You don’t attack, you stalk. Like Grandma’s old cat, who’s always dropping the dead mice at the door? You're the cat and the fairy’s the mouse, see. Still as anything and then – bam! – pounce.
He looked down at his trembling body; his foot sunk in a rut of moss, his unsure hand on the crossbow tied tightly to his belt, his other hand picking at his lip. He imagined what he’d look like to someone now – dressed as a hunter, all green leathers that blended in with the scenery, large bag full of lures and tools, a quiver slung over his shoulder, a weapon swinging at his hip, yet the face of a boy who hadn’t even seen a thing bleed. Who was rarely quiet and never still and definitely couldn’t pounce.
His brothers called it the ‘Hunter’s way’, all that talk about stalking and pouncing. That’s what gets the little critters, alright, snatch ‘em when they’re not looking and cut their wings before they slip by and it’s done. What’s the trouble?
He’d never been able to answer that question.
Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squeal and his head snapped up. The huge oak tree towered before him, but his vision of the rest of it was blocked as a shrieking, blossom-pink thing fell flat onto his face. The figure squashed his nose, then bounced onto his collar, before sliding off and rolling onto his splayed hands. He stared.
There was a fairy on his palm.
She was tiny and twig-like, pink hair down to her waist, big, oval yellow eyes, and dragonfly wings; one severely bent, her skin splattered with blood, like she’d been in a fight.
The fairy scowled up at him and crossed her arms. She seemed awfully pertinent, for such a small thing. He watched her bare her teeth.
Like a dark whisper into his brain, the boy remembered the weight of his crossbow, the quiver on his shoulder, heard the words his Grandma had spoken a thousand times before; fairy wings make potions. Their hair brews antidotes. Their sparkle fuels magic. Kill it, and we’re rich.
The fairy’s broken wing twitched. She glanced back at it, her furious facade slipping. She’s scared, he thought, her wing is too injured to escape. The hands he held her in shook.
Sunlight hit a nearby forest pond, the warmth reflecting off and casting a bright glow, which made the fairy look nearly luminescent. Her skin shone from beneath the dress of blood and bruises. Such a pretty little thing– person? Was she more a person or an animal? Wasn’t he, technically, both?
A drop of blood fell from the fairy he was supposed to make prey, touching his skin. The fairy shivered.
So it was then he found himself deciding not to kill it, just for the moment, you know, just really, really briefly. Maybe he’d leave this fairy and go find a nice, healthy one he could feel less bad about killing…
He tugged a cloth from his pocket, laying it wide on his palm and nudging the fairy onto it, as she squeaked, disoriented. Then he walked down the little hill of grass and tree roots to the crystal blue pond, gently lowering her on the pebbles next to the water with the cloth like her mini picnic blanket. Her huge eyes narrowed at him, but nevertheless she stepped into the water and wiped off the blood stains of her twinkling skin, keeping her gaze pinned on the predator before her all the while. When she seemed satisfied, he offered her the cloth again, and she – begrudgingly, he thought – used it to dry herself off.
The fairy sat down on a little white rock. The boy sat back with his hands braced against the ground. He wondered what had injured her so, and what type of medicine worked on a fairy. Then he shook his head in frustration and cursed himself.
His crossbow was stuck uncomfortably to his side. Hands itched, telling him to clasp it, telling him to use it, or at least telling him to grab the creature and throttle it, but he couldn’t. The fairy pulled her knees up to her chest and finally dropped her suspicious stare, looking out toward the pond. Her body seemed to relax; she no longer tensed up next to him. Was she perhaps realizing that he wasn’t going to kill her? No– not realizing, he corrected himself, she can’t realize anything, because I will kill her, so she’s probably just settling in and accepting her fate or something, because she can see I’m a hunter – I’m a man – and I will totally, definitely, undoubtedly kill her…
He didn’t know why he was struggling with this, he didn’t know why he cared. What’s the trouble? It played like a mantra in his disparaging mind. He should just take the opportunity and kill her– it. Yes, it. Not a person, right? Just a fairy. Just a fairy.
His grandmother’s old, annoyed words rung in his mind; learn to kill the damn things, boy, your soft heart will be the death of this family. Don’t you want to be a man?
A loud snapping of a branch broke his reverie, as bulky figures trampled their way to the opposite edge of the pond, green packs pulling on their shoulders, big boots stomping on the earth, laughing raucously and elbowing each other. His brothers.
The tallest of the three newcomers looked up, his gaze landing on the small, lean form of his youngest brother across the water. Then those cold eyes found the fairy.
“Catch!” He cried, “we’ve got a catch! Brother, look beside you!”
The other two froze at the sight of the sparkling person perched next to their brother, identical, almost maniacal grins splitting their faces.
He couldn’t move, sitting here next to the fairy he’d helped. He couldn’t even make his chest heave with breath. He was a statue under the oppressive stares of his family, and the challenge in the eyes of the fairy, where he saw both fear and determined resolve, as she wordlessly dared him to do what he knew he had to.
What’s the trouble? He stood up. Don’t you want to be a man?
The fairy screamed as the walls of the cloth were wrapped tightly around her, as she felt her dark trap leave the ground and the tremor of the human holding her. There was male cheering, snickering, calling unintelligible things. She dragged her spindle-like fingers along the fabric, unable to make a mark. Her wings felt so useless it was insulting.
Oh, how she should’ve known! The boy had seemed so conflicted the whole time. She never should’ve let herself trust him, even for a moment. He was a hunter by the weapons at his waist, that much was clear, and if only she hadn’t disturbed that sleeping owl and had half her skin clawed off, she wouldn’t have fallen straight from that oak tree into the enemy’s waiting grip!
Unexpectedly, the cloth was lowered to the ground. The sun greeted her like an old friend as she was placed in a friendly, cozy bush, a shadow over her. She looked up.
There he was, the boy– no, the man. He gazed awhile at her. She does look quite a lot like a person, he thought, deliberating. He the hunter and she his prey. That’s what they had been told to be.
But, perhaps, killing isn’t what really makes a man.
His crossbow felt uncomfortable at his side again, so he unlatched it from his belt and watched it thud resolutely on the grassy floor. He no longer had the need to carry its burden.
Maybe that’s what the trouble was – what was so wrong with being ‘soft’, really?
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In this lively rendering of a contemporary fairy tale, told in bright, clear language, a young man discovers that strength can be found in unexpected ways when he decides to rebel against familiar pressure to kill the fairy who falls to the ground in front of him. The writer renders his inner conflict with deft insight, as sympathy ultimately proves the greater strength.
Catherine Bush, author
2024 Dorothy Shoemaker Awards judge
The Awards began in 1967 as a Centennial project, created by Dorothy Shoemaker, Kitchener Public Library's Chief Librarian from 1944 to 1971.
In 1996, when government funding for the awards was eliminated, Ms. Shoemaker made a significant personal donation to ensure the awards would continue. In 2000, Ms. Shoemaker passed away at the age of 94. However, her legacy of support for aspiring writers continues today through her ongoing endowment.
Kitchener Public Library thanks the Waterloo Region Community Foundation for their ongoing financial support of this long-running contest.