by P. J. German
It was a cold morning. The snow had stopped, but its result was left upon the ground. The only green in sight were the pine trees. Autumn gave way to winter early this year, and most of the trees were asleep, naked. My father and I stepped out of the bright red pickup truck, both of us wearing battle fatigue. He picked up his rifle and he handed me mine. Then we walked into the woods: A professional and an amateur, a father and a son. We hunkered down behind a fallen tree and waited. ‘There,’ my father finally said. I turned to where he pointed, and I saw her: Fair-skinned, dark eyes, large chest, and a brunette. We only shot brunettes. It seemed that was the only color hair they had. I raised my rifle, tunneled my vision through the scope, and locked in to the throat. I pulled the trigger, and through the scope lens, I saw the blood spurt from the wound. The thunderous explosion sent the birds soaring through the air. She fell, dead upon the floor. My father patted me on the back as he said, ‘Well done, son. Good shot.’ His pat on my back told me I was now a man in his eyes. I can shoot and kill just like him, and that made me a man.