Shooting PheasantsShooting Pheasantsby Joshua AllenOlan raised his shotgun in what would have been seen by anobjective observer as a blur of fast motion, a glint of bluedsteel. The wheat swayed; the bird swayed with it. Heat, noiseand light turned into blood, feathers and smoke. Olan, alone inthe field, retrieved the bird without comment. He trekked to thefar end of the field, reloading a red shotgun shell into thewarm barrel of his gun, dropping the spent cartridge into one ofthe many pockets of his elaborate hunting vest. The bird,stuffed into the large pouch on the back of his vest, kickedwithout conviction; it was dead. It emitted a half-heartedsquawk when Olan bent to pick a grain of wheat from a low stalk.Olan moved a few yards south and went back into the rows ofthe wheat field, dragging his heavy boots through dew and mud.At the other end, Olan could see his car, a blue Saturn, waitingpatiently. A mechanical sound, a rhythmic pulse, drifted throughthe trees from the hard-packed dirt road on the other side. Olanwalked to the tree line, resting his shotgun in the crook of his
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