Fiction — August 9, 2011 13:44 — 8 Comments

Four-Ten – Ryan Collins

The shotgun was heavy in the boy’s hands.  The pigeons in the upstairs loft stared down at him, their little white faces scrunched up against the chicken wire.  The boy held his breath as he sighted down the barrel.  The hawk flipped and fluttered, knocking against the tin ceiling of the barn.  The pigeons shuffled, pressing harder against the chicken wire that opened from the fly pen to the inside of the barn.

Hold it level, now, his dad’s voice repeated in his head.  Don’t go shooting high, and don’t shut that other eye.

Maryann, the boy’s little sister, shouted at him from the back porch—something about how dad was gonna tan his hide when he got home.

But it was Dad who’d told him to do this.  If a hawk or a coon ever gets in here, he’d said, and I ain’t home, you’re gonna have to shoot it.

Well, Dad wasn’t home, and here he was sighting a red-tail down the barrel, his hands sweating like they’d never done before. This wasn’t nothing like shooting cans or milk jugs.  Sighting down that barrel, all he could see were those pigeons and the only thing pigeons had in common with milk jugs was that they’d both explode after he squeezed the trigger. Except it wouldn’t be water and plastic but blood and feathers flying every which way.

They’re as good as dead, his dad had said.  If a hawk gets in, he won’t be able to get back out again, and he’ll just keep on killing and eating them all day.  So don’t you go worrying about them pigeons.  You just make sure you don’t go shooting at him with a 12-gauge.  You don’t want to go and knock the wall out.

He’d nodded fiercely up at his dad that day, more than ready to do what a man has to do to take care of his family.  The birds—the chickens downstairs, the pigeons upstairs—had become his responsibility.  He’d had to feed them and water them and clean out their cages.  Momma used to take care of all that before; she used to come out here every day and feed those birds and the goats and hogs.  Even now as his breath fogged up the steel of the barrel, he could see her in that pretty dress she used to wear around Easter, the one with all the flowers. She’d come out here in that dress and muddy boots, a bucket of feed in one hand and a water tray in the other.  She’d told him all about these birds—how they like to nest in the egg crates she brought home from the grocer’s, how they would kick out eggs if they felt something was wrong with them, how they’d peck through their feed to get to those little gray seeds they liked so much. She’d told him everything she knew about keeping pigeons, just like her daddy had done for her and his daddy before him.

But Momma wasn’t around to take care of them anymore. Those birds were in his care now, and he just couldn’t see blowing them to bits after all of that.

“But they’re as good as dead,” he said to himself, and the hawk skittered back and forth, flapping its big wings. It came off the floor and wrapped its claws through the chicken wire on the wall facing the boy. He felt the wind slap his face as it beat its wings, tugging against the wire.

Maryann’s voice grew hoarse, she was shouting at him so hard.

Opposite from the loft’s door, there was a tiny window with no glass the pigeons could use to fly outside. Momma made Dad fix it so that the pigeons could come and go as they pleased by hanging a little iron rod above the window pane. There were four dowels hanging from the rod, every other one cut short so they could swing free. The other two were too long to swing out, but they could still swing in. The hawk shot towards the little window, but he slammed his head hard into those dowels, too big to get back out again. He flapped to the ground, spraying sand and straw as he tried to right himself.

The hawk stood up after a breath. It fixed its gold eye on him for a moment, and cocked its head to the side.  The boy realized then, with that bird’s eye on him, that he’d lowered the shotgun.  He couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for it, trapped as it was.

This is what a man does, his dad’s voice panged in his head. What he ought to do.

He raised the gun like his dad had showed him.  The hawk took off again, slamming into everything.  The pigeons pressed harder against the wire, staring right back down at him across that black barrel.  Maryann was crying now, crying for her daddy, her daddy who was off at work, making money for her and his other sister Alice instead of being here to shoot birds and feed goats.  But he could feel Daddy standing next to him in that barn, judging him, criticising the way he didn’t quite hold his feet straight or lean into the shot.  Snapping at him to open up his other eye and stop thinking about the damn pigeons and how that shot would rip right through them and start thinking about the hawk that was fixing to eat them all alive for lunch anyway.

All Daddy’d worry about at a time like this was the barn.  That’s why he had to search around in the house as long as he did.  Looking for the right gun.  He pulled shells out of shoe boxes, two 12-gauges and a 20-gauge out of the damn closet before he found the four-ten.  The one that wouldn’t hurt the barn, but it’d sure as shit would tear right through the flesh and feathers of all those birds.

And that poor dumb hawk was just trying to eat.  It was probably just as cold as he was, standing there in boots that were too big for him, shivering like a coward and holding a gun that was too heavy.  He thought for a second that maybe he could just let the bird out.  Just walk up there and open the door to the loft, and the hawk would just fly away, maybe even be grateful.  Even as he thought it, though, he imagined that scared bird sinking those claws into his neck.

He’d seen a rooster do that to Maryann one summer.  He remembered all of the blood and his sister crying and those big gashes in her shoulders the doctor had to sew up.  And he thought how much bigger and meaner that hawk was compared to a rooster.  Daddy’d killed that bird, too.  As soon as he’d come home and Momma had told him he just walked right out there with a pistol and shot the bird to bits.  They didn’t even have it for supper—there wasn’t none of it left. Momma had been awful mad at Dad for that.  She just didn’t get why he’d waste a bird like that.

He’d said the bird got what it deserved, that it had become a burden on the family and needed to be got rid of.

But why didn’t you just wring its neck? Momma’d asked. We could’ve at least kept it for supper.

Daddy never looked up; he was quiet for a long time, just kept passing that rag over the pistol. Wasn’t nothing left worth keeping, he’d said.

And now here he was, trying to fill his daddy’s shoes, fixing to shoot to death a whole mess of birds because they just happened to be in the way and happened to taste good to that stupid hawk whose life it was now his responsibility to end.

A hollow feeling sank down into his stomach and even though he could hear his daddy screaming at him to open up his eyes and stop thinking about those pigeons and don’t grip the gun so hard and stop all that crying, he couldn’t help any of it. And just as he heard Maryann’s tiny, sniffling voice behind him, he thought to himself that he didn’t much care much for what a man ought to do.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

Bio:

Ryan Collins lives and writes in Southwestern Ohio and studied writing as an undergraduate at Miami University of Ohio. Although he has been writing stories for many years, he has only recently begun to pursue publication. This is his first published piece.

8 Comments

  1. suz laino says:

    so proud to call ryan collins a friend. excellent piece, i look forward to reading more.

  2. Pat Erb and Brenda Erb says:

    Ryan, Excellent!!! This piece sures reminds us of a certain loft nearby with pigeons and chickens. The buildup to the finish was well thought out. The article was written very well.
    We hope this is the first of many. Look forward to the next .

  3. Carol Penhorwood says:

    One could feel the emotions of the MC and the suspense as he took on the responsibility of a man. Good writing! Keep your stories coming.

  4. Wayne Collins says:

    Well crafted. Undeniable talent. Be encouraged.

  5. Gerrry Payne says:

    Congratulations Ryan, great job on the short story! I am sure you will have a great writing future ahead of you. Keep up the good work. I know your Mom, Dad and brother all must be very proud of you. I am proud of you as well.

  6. Judy Bailey says:

    Hi Ryan! What an excellent short story that kept my interest from beginning to end. I’m sure there’s more great stories to come.
    Thanks!

  7. Craig Farrell says:

    Ryan,

    Excellent short story! I’ve worked with your father-in-law for years, and the story definitely reminds me of him :-) Keep up the excellent writing! Thanks!

    Craig Farrell & Family

  8. Abigayle says:

    Excellent story. I felt like I was there. I could see the whole thing. Great detail.

Leave a Reply

The answer isn't poetry, but rather language

- Richard Kenney