The First Shot

• Aryenish Kavarana, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

The air was cool and crisp, like a refreshing drink of cold water after hours in the scorching sun. Jane sat back against her chair on the front porch, as she watched a flock of birds bloom out from the forest across the sky. The lead bird fell back to let another take on the strain of leading from the front of the formation. She watched them until they were specks on the horizon, until that moment just before they blended into the distant sky.

Looking into her front yard, she watched her son play outside. He stood so still, eyes following the birds in flight just like she had. He watched as children do, with that look of unabated love and awe. When he grew bored of watching the sky, he went back to playing with what looked like a long stick- probably something he had picked up in the yard. Jane watched him drag its end through the dirt, back and forth, his tiny shoes clapping against the hard dirt. She was too far to see what markings he was making. Nevertheless, she smiled, quietly admiring how such a small creature could be so full of energy.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the shed door was ajar. Confused as to why it was open, she got up from her chair and walked over to the shed. The shed seemed untouched, nothing was amiss. The guns sat lifeless on the shelf just like they had been for years. Everything seemed to be in order.

As she turned to leave she noticed the old painting of her and her father leaning against the wall, dusty and unloved. Jane ran her fingers along the gold framing, her pink nail polish almost purple in the half-light, and it came away dirty. In the grime that must have taken years to form there was now a streak of gold. Seeing the image brought back memories of the day she shot her first bird… ‘It was my first shot. The first of many. My own father was standing behind me, ordering me to finish what I had begun.’

Moments later… a gunshot was fired. Completely shocked, Jane ran outside. Distressed and confused, she ran over to her son in such a fluster worried for his safety.

‘Look mummy, I want to be just like you,’ her son exclaimed with a beaming smile as he turned around holding her shotgun. Jane stood there, unsure what to say or do. ‘How did he find that??’ she thought. Those words kept replaying in her head as she wondered if her son had inherited that she did not want passed on.

Seeing the disappointment etched in his mother’s face, he dropped the gun. They both looked at the large hole which had been formed in the tree. He registered that his mother wasn’t as happy as he was, and he leaned his head upon her arm, as he wept.