Short Stories

The Bow Hunter

"Clear your head, picture your shot, and you'll never miss." An axiom my dad has told me, his dad told him and so forth. The poly of this sport, bow hunting, is exactly that, never miss. Never. I have practiced an inordinate amount of time and put so much energy into this upcoming moment that lays right in front of me. I could be prosperous but the dogged side of me pushed through and grabbed my brain and rewired it into be almost.... obsessed with this sport.

"Are you sure you still want to go out there? The weather is startin' to look ominous..." My father trailed off with his sentence. I looked at the clock that was on the coffee pot.

"Dad, I did not get up at 3:30 just to go back to bed." I lifted up my coffee mug as I walked towards the fridge, to get some milk. "Plus the coffee is gonna be kicking in soon." I half joked to my dad. I glanced over my shoulder at the table where his shoulders were slumped over, forearms resting on the table and his hands on his mug of black coffee. I saw the proclivity smile that ghostly formed across his face. He knew that was going to be my obstinate response.

After downing my coffee-milk mixture and grabbing some grub, I hopped into the truck with my bow case in one hand. I glanced down the truck and saw the mud on the truck. It was befitting, it shows where my dad and I have been and to where we will be. I set the bow case right on my lap. The inside of the truck was unkempt with Subway and gum wrappers, but still commodious. As the drive up to our hunting spot continued on, I pulled out my arrows. I picked up my go-to arrow; the ripped feathering on the end of the arrow was inconsequential, I doubt it would undermine my shooting. Setting down the arrow than looking over the carbon bodies of all the 12 arrows that I carry around while we hunt. Uncracked carbon body was obligatory when it came to the hunting and shooting law. Taylor Swift's song broke my concentration I had on my arrows, the song was so boisterous! I reached over to change the song when my dad slapped my hand away.

"I am the driver, I control the radio. Here." My dad reached on to the dash, picking up a section of a newspaper. "Read this excerpt." Was all he told me as he threw it into my lap. So I read, and I quickly wished I hadn't.

"This article is so motley, even misdeed, them talking about this subversive organization-" I was cut off by two things; one, us turning off of the freeway into our hunting ground dirt road. Two; my father telling me to shut my glib mouth. We drove for maybe 25 minutes before we came to our hunting stand.

We unloaded.

We waited.

Waited.

Dad had fell asleep a long time ago. I thought about how I was very receptive for good things but obstinate to try and break this obsession, in the hours of peace.

Than I saw my target. I stood up slowly and quietly, picked up my bow, drew it back. I faint smile appeared on my face as I thought:

"Clear your head, picture your shot, and you'll never miss."