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#a53 :: Quail call

April 6, 2008

ENLARGEThe sound gusted through him just before he staggered back and sat down hard in the marsh grass.

A boom – probably a 12-gauge – arrived milliseconds after the shot caught him full in the chest and knocked him onto his heels. Funny, this site the delay. Kind of funny how that works.

Who in god’s name would be out taking game birds with a cannon like that? Sonsabitches. God.

He began a swift inventory – Face, ambulance head – no blood. Chest – some, but no organs punctured – he couldn’t be sure.

And this thing in his hand – an elegant little sandwich of Bakelite and chromed steel around a taut membrane of fabric.

He had blown into it – just before he was shot.

His father had given it to him: “This is a good call, once you learn how to use it.” And then his father showed him how real it sounded. “You just have to practice.”

And he had blown into it, and then the … God. So much blood in the water.

The dog bounded over to lap his face. Then he saw the blood jumping from the inside of his thigh. He pulled himself up onto his elbows, breathing hard. The dog barked.

He blew an alarm cry from the little zeppelin of antique plastic. Maybe José would come.

Before he passed out, he patted the dog one last time, and exhaled, sagging back into the marsh, where water seeped cold down his neck, and pants, and boots.

Maybe I shouldn’t have practiced so well.

Maybe …

Filed under: Instrument, Microfiction, Objet, Tool | Comments (0)

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