The Trigger - Jeff Thomas

“Pull!”

{Metallic rattle.}

Two clay pigeons soar out over the field in smooth, diverging arcs.

{Pull the trigger. Kaboom!}

Clay shatters; yellow and black explode like dull fireworks.

{Reload. Pull the trigger. Kaboom!}

Nothing.

The second disk, past the peak of its arc, descends rapidly toward the tawny field.

{Quick, reload. Pull the trigger. Kaboom.}

Feet before the ground the disk disintegrates. The noise of the gun echoes off the nearby trees in a rattling concussion. A few dark birds scatter in the fading, later afternoon light.

Frank lowers the shotgun and pulls off his earmuffs. Tim chuckles, “Good catch on the last one.”

“Aw, shut it.” Frank reaches into his jacket for more shotgun shells. He scowls. “Load ‘em up. Two again this time, but I’m runnin’ out of shells.”

Tim reaches into the box and pulls out two fluorescent yellow clay pigeons. They’re fragile in his hands. With one hand, he pulls back the spring-loaded trap and clicks it in place. Gingerly he places the two disks on the metal arm. One cracks in half. “Goddangit! Where the hell’d d’you get these cheap fuckers?” He tosses the broken bits on the ground and reaches for another.

Frank finishes loading and with a loud clack pumps a shell into the chamber. He puts the muffs back on and lifts the gun.

A moment of silence presents itself.

“Pull!”