Summer has come, and gone. Another school year well underway. In the waning climatic remnants of the season, the boy is playing in the backyard. The leaves, browning with each passing day, have begun to fall at their expected pace. The once green grass, now a yellowed brown scorched by a summer's worth of sun, fruitlessly attempts to rejuvenate itself before the oncoming frost of an early winter.
The blue-eyed boy stands with his back against the family shed; the gray shed to the right of the gray house at the end of the gray pebbled driveway. There is a gun in his hand -- a BB gun -- and he hugs it close to his body, the barrel of which points toward the gray sky.
Beyond the boundaries of the family backyard, just past the wooden fence that borders the surrounding forest, a blue jay is perched on the limb of a tree. The bird, enormous for its kind, rests on the branch, pecking at the bark beneath him.
The boy’s been watching the blue jay for the better part of an hour. Now, its time. The boy eases his way around the backside of the shed. Despite a year of practice, he's failed to hit anything all year (except, once, his older brother). But in general, blue jays are always a prime target, even hated by the boy's mother because they often scare away all other sweet and small birds by the family feeder. So, just as his older brothers have taught him, this opportunity is too good to pass up.
There's no way this one's getting away.
After peeking around the corner of the shed to make sure the bird is still there, the boy loads the BB into the gun. Better put in 3 BBs just to make sure. He pumps the gun the maximum ten times. Better pump it twenty, he thinks. Just to make sure.
He raises the rifle.
Turns.
Aims.
Shoots.
The blue jay sees its fate a split second before it hits him. It turns its head and those bluish gray wings open -- all in preparation for flight -- a failed escape. With these wings expanded, the boy sees the soft feathered underbelly of the bird.
"THWAP, THWAP, THWAP." The BBs pierce the bird's puffy white chest leaving small but visible black holes. The creature stumbles. Makes one last "CRAW." And falls.
In the seconds since firing, the boy stands motionless, watching the events unfold before him. God, what a beautiful bird, he realizes. Soon his excitement is replaced, by a sickening sense of remorse. Maybe I missed him? He hopes. He steps forward. No. He stops. Staring at the bush where the bird fell, part of him wants to run and find out the answer. Maybe I can help it?
But he drops the BB gun and runs away.
*****
The boy goes to bed early that evening. Skips dinner. Tells his mom that he’s "not feeling so good."
Lying alone in the corner of his bedroom; the setting sun casts a strange orange-red glow through the windowpanes. Face down on his bed, the boy buries his face in the pillow -- embraces the wet stains on the pillowcase -- and listens to life’s constant reminder -- the erratic panting of his breathing. He refuses to raise his head, to face the fear, to abandon a life that has been, and will continue to be, a sad story of cruelty to creatures.
Stupid Bird.
The blue-eyed boy stands with his back against the family shed; the gray shed to the right of the gray house at the end of the gray pebbled driveway. There is a gun in his hand -- a BB gun -- and he hugs it close to his body, the barrel of which points toward the gray sky.
Beyond the boundaries of the family backyard, just past the wooden fence that borders the surrounding forest, a blue jay is perched on the limb of a tree. The bird, enormous for its kind, rests on the branch, pecking at the bark beneath him.
The boy’s been watching the blue jay for the better part of an hour. Now, its time. The boy eases his way around the backside of the shed. Despite a year of practice, he's failed to hit anything all year (except, once, his older brother). But in general, blue jays are always a prime target, even hated by the boy's mother because they often scare away all other sweet and small birds by the family feeder. So, just as his older brothers have taught him, this opportunity is too good to pass up.
There's no way this one's getting away.
After peeking around the corner of the shed to make sure the bird is still there, the boy loads the BB into the gun. Better put in 3 BBs just to make sure. He pumps the gun the maximum ten times. Better pump it twenty, he thinks. Just to make sure.
He raises the rifle.
Turns.
Aims.
Shoots.
The blue jay sees its fate a split second before it hits him. It turns its head and those bluish gray wings open -- all in preparation for flight -- a failed escape. With these wings expanded, the boy sees the soft feathered underbelly of the bird.
"THWAP, THWAP, THWAP." The BBs pierce the bird's puffy white chest leaving small but visible black holes. The creature stumbles. Makes one last "CRAW." And falls.
In the seconds since firing, the boy stands motionless, watching the events unfold before him. God, what a beautiful bird, he realizes. Soon his excitement is replaced, by a sickening sense of remorse. Maybe I missed him? He hopes. He steps forward. No. He stops. Staring at the bush where the bird fell, part of him wants to run and find out the answer. Maybe I can help it?
But he drops the BB gun and runs away.
*****
The boy goes to bed early that evening. Skips dinner. Tells his mom that he’s "not feeling so good."
Lying alone in the corner of his bedroom; the setting sun casts a strange orange-red glow through the windowpanes. Face down on his bed, the boy buries his face in the pillow -- embraces the wet stains on the pillowcase -- and listens to life’s constant reminder -- the erratic panting of his breathing. He refuses to raise his head, to face the fear, to abandon a life that has been, and will continue to be, a sad story of cruelty to creatures.
Stupid Bird.
