The pixies jumped on the cage, smashing it open. Its door flew off into the surrounding vegetation. Blood and gore splattered the undergrowth. They were too late; the trap had been used. Tears spurted and swear words hung among the branches.
“Look!” cried a pixie, reeling from horror, “A shooting tower!”
There on the edge of the wood, outside the farmer’s land was a tall wooden tower, sighting onto the cage.
Two pixies emerged from the heartwood carrying a double-handled saw. They trod lightly, keeping to the common path. Soon the tower toppled to the pixies’ glee. Satisfaction tempered grief.
One tiny pixie laid sticks across the known entrances of the sett, as if she were laying flowers at a funeral. She would visit later in the week to see if there were any signs of use.
Behind the wood, young bullocks, curious about the world, snuffled old badger latrines.


Longlisted on Ad Hoc Fiction 24th October 2018, prompt word:door