Exercises
“In the evening, when the moths begin to gather, Old Peter takes out his gun and sits on the porch waiting.”
In the evening, when the moths begin to gather, Old Peter takes out his gun and sits on the porch waiting. He watches the glow on the horizon through rhuemy eyes, a yellowed nail tapping out a slow rhythm on the stock of the ex-army enfield. The gun had been his constant companion through two wars but its barrel shone like new in the fading light.
The postcard had arrived that morning and although it had no senders name or even worked the postmark said it all. His past had come to claim him but he was ready.
by Michele deBes
In the evening, when the moths begin to gather, Old Peter takes out his gun and sits on the porch waiting. And it’s been this way for more than thirty years.
Not surprisingly, time has taken its toll on the old boy’s memory and for most of the last decade he hasn't been able to remember exactly why he’s been doing this. The urge is so strong though, that as soon as the loons begin to call across the lake he starts the daily routine. He goes to the gun cupboard and takes out a handful of shells, the Winchester and a soft cloth, black with graphite.
It’s probably just as well he doesn’t remember. There are some things better left forgotten.