In Poems & Fiction

Yesterday, we were out in the back, shooting at clouds.  Except for the shots, it was quiet as a pond.  Me and Dave firing our 22s into the air, just a few rounds.  On a day like that, you don’t need your hunting glasses. You know just where to aim. Sometimes the clouds look like White Tail stags, sometimes like fresh bandages.  I told Dave the Budweisers wouldn’t help. He said Duly noted, as he took another one from the cooler.  Since his wife’s fatal accident, I try to keep Dave’s mind off of things.  He likes shooting at the sky.  Says he’s cloud hunting.  Another bull’s eye, he howls, as he reloads, and squints to aim.  Like he sees something in the sky’s pretty distance, unsuspecting and approaching.


Appears in Clockhouse Vol. 5, Summer, 2017


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