Hey, you found it! You read to the end of some page, found the hidden link, and even decided to click on it.

Your reward? A (very) short story I wrote a few years ago.

I’ve never sent it anywhere for publication, but I do like it. At least, I like it enough to put it on a hidden page on my website where only the most obsessed people will ever find it.

Enjoy!

PS - If you were hoping for something more exciting, here’s a free online video game that will be the death of your discretionary time.

The Wait

I've never been hurt by a deer. Never been angry at one for jumping out in front of my car, getting me into a wreck. I don't even know anyone who's been in a wreck because of a deer. I just know that kind of thing happens, and I think if I'd been in a wreck because of a deer then maybe that'd be reason enough for me to go hunting. But I haven't.

So here I am. Sitting in a tree. Thirty minutes before sundown. And I've got a rifle. And I've got an old man. And the old man wants me to shoot a deer. Most unfortunate of all, after seven hours of watching leaves and twigs and trying to make conversation with a septuagenarian, a deer has decided to walk sixty yards away from where we're sitting.

“Now you're gonna line him up,” he whispers, “and just make a fist. Don't squeeze the trigger. Just make a fist. Deep breath now.”

I take a deep breath, and all I can think about is what note the gun will make if I blow over the barrel. My guess is deeper than a beer bottle but higher than one of those jugs you see people blowing on in ragtime bands. I imagine a row of different sized guns attached to some sort of stand so you can play them like an instrument from a Blue Man Group show. Blue Man Group meets Russian roulette. Jack didn't laugh when I made a joke about “going stag” so I decide not to lighten the mood with a musical break.

Who ever thought it would be a good idea for me to have a gun in my hands?

“Are you gonna shoot him or just hold your breath, Pastor?”

“Sorry. I just...does he seem really far away to you? Shouldn't we wait for a closer one?”

“This ain't a merry go round. It's almost dark. There ain't gonna be no more.”

I don't want to shoot the deer. I didn't even want to come hunting.

I just wanted street cred. Dirt road cred? There aren't too many paved streets here. I actually thought it was nice at first. Quaint. An idyllic southern town, and I'm the young pastor come to shake things up. The Methodist church thought it was a good idea to send me here, but I get the feeling none of the people making that decision don’t know me or this town as well as they claim.

There's not much someone like me can do to fit in here. Chili cook-offs only help you with the granny gang, and judging by how many times I've been asked if I'm wearing women's jeans and whether I'm getting a haircut any time soon, I think I need to branch out.

No, if you really want to make it, you'll kill something. Insects and mice don't count. Opossums do, but only if it's not a roadkill situation. “Spiritual Leadership in the Rural South: Hope you like shooting things!” Maybe I'll teach the class some day.

“Why aren't you shooting him, son? He's not gonna stand there forever.”

“Sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

“I don't wanna hear about you zoning out while you've got a gun in your hands. Remember: Right through the shoulder blade. Trust your scope. Take a breath and make a fist.”

Again I take a breath.

The deer is still. Maybe he wants me to kill him. His sacrifice for my social salvation. Jesus of the woods.

And so I start to exhale. I make a fist. The hammer drops, and I lurch backward, eyes momentarily closed.

When I open them, the deer is gone.

“Did I miss the kill zone?”

“Well, son, you missed the whole deer. And I imagine that tree back there is gonna make it too.”

I can’t tell if my sigh is from relief or disappointment. We can finally go home. But it would’ve been nice to have it done with.

After the ATV ride back to the truck, Jack loads the guns up and we get in to start the drive back to the church where I left my car.

“You know,” he says, “each of my sons left after four hours sitting up here their first time out.”

“Well, at least they didn’t waste any ammunition.”

“They didn’t have the chance. Got bored. Didn’t realize that waiting’s the main part of it.”

As I drive back to my apartment, I pray he’s right.