Pheasant Hunt

by John McCaffrey

The buckwheat field smells like pancakes fried in bacon fat.  The hunter, a few steps ahead of his young son, brushes the calloused tip of a bent thumb across the black metal and releases the shotgun’s safety.   He spits and focuses on the black lab. 

“He’s onto something.”

It’s not a hunch.  The field is filled with pheasant. 

The black lab freezes to point. 

“He’s got it.”

The hunter worms the gun’s wood stock into his shoulder socket.  His index finger slides through the trigger hole.  He sights a foot or so over the black lab.

The young son crouches low and closes his eyes in anticipation of the attempted escape:  the pneumatic beating of wings too small for such a heavy body, the colorful spray of feathers—ruby red, sunburn orange, emerald grain—climbing into a gray yet cloudless sky, the elongated squawk, like the awkward swipe of a bow across a violin’s taught strings.

The hunter’s finger depresses.  Two hollow explosions, one after another.  The pheasant falls horizontally through the overlapping echoes, lands with a bounce in the springy buckwheat.  The hunter moves fast, swings the gun over his shoulder, shouts at the black lab to stay clear of the convulsing bird. 

“It’s big,” he yells to the young son, breaking the fluorescent neck with a fast twist.   “Come look.”

The young son opens his eyes.   Sees.

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, May 19th, 2008 and was filed under Blog, Featured, Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~