By Zary Fekete
The two boys trudged across the frozen ground, one hill leading to the next, through the
darkening woods. They had been pheasant hunting but had shot nothing. The young brother was
not terribly put out, but older brother was upset, wishing the afternoon had not been wasted in
this manner. If he had known the hunting would have been in vain he might have stayed back
and worked on the old car in the garage.
The younger brother was walking ahead. They might have walked side by side and talked, but
the older brother’s mood was sour and he had tired of his young brother’s patter. As it was, the
younger brother sang cheerfully to himself and whistled from time to time as the path rose and
fell over each upcoming rise.
The older brother was holding the gun. There were only a few rules regarding the gun, and they
had been set down by their father long ago. The boys were allowed to hunt all they wanted as
long as they did so during the day time and so long as they only shot at what was in season. This
meant there were time when deer were off limit or when ducks must be left off the list, but most
all times of the year small squirrels and chipmunks could be shot, although the joy in shooting at
them was largely lost on the two boys. Most things which are permitted are less interesting than
things that are restricted.
The other rule regarding the gun was that it must be kept unloaded if it was not being used for
hunting. Their father was strict about this rule. Unloaded and never to be pointed at another
person, even when empty.
The older brother listened to the sounds of his feet crunching through the underbrush. He glanced
up and saw his young brother tear a small twig off a tree as they passed and begin to pretend to
conduct the music he was making with his whistling.
Slowly and without thinking much about it, the older brother unshouldered the gun as he walked.
The natural steps he took through the brush gave a certain rhythm to his gait and with each step
he allowed the weight of the gun to gradually fall into place until he was holding the gun level
and pointing it at the back of his younger brother.
I remember unloading the gun, he thought to himself, as he walked. I can feel the bullets in my
pocket right now. He thought this with a satisfied nod. He looked from the barrel of the gun to
the back of his brother as the road rose slightly before them. Now his brother’s back was
squarely in the sight of the gun barrel.
What would happen if I pulled the trigger, he thought to himself? Nothing. The gun it empty.
And, indeed, for a few strong moments the older brother was surprised at how satisfying it felt to
him to imagine pulling the trigger and hearing the crisp click. The whistle of his younger brother
was now firmly irritating him. The thought of pulling the trigger became an overwhelming
longing.
But then, as the woods darkened around him, the face is his father loomed large before him in the
woods, the older boy’s spirit shrank in shame at what he was contemplating. Slowly, he shifted
the gun again until it was back on his shoulder.
Then, a strange thought occurred to him. They were just passing a clearing and the first stars had
broken out in the sky. The older brother slowed his steps until he stood still beneath the twilight
sky. He unshouldered the gun again and clicked open the barrel.
The gun was loaded.
Zary Fekete…
…grew up in Hungary
…has a debut novella out now with DarkWinter Lit Press.
…enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete
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