Week 22 -Gun 495 words Stew for Dinner By Susan Skowronski Old Charlie Patterson took a long swig from his water bottle, waved away a fly and raised his eyes to the skyline. One solitary fluffy cloud sailed across the golden sunset. There was no breeze, and the setting of the sun hadn’t dropped the temperature – it was still stinking hot. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. ‘No rain today, Bessie,’ he told his kelpie. She gazed up at him and listlessly wagged her tail. When he said nothing more, she turned in a circle or two, sniffed his boot, and curled up on the dry grass. ‘I’ll see if I can get us some dinner. Plenty of roos around.’ The drought was bad but worse further out west. The struggle to feed his herd was made harder by the roos. If he shot a roo, he’d make a stew and Bessie could have the rest. Roo meat wasn’t bad eating – he’d practically lived on it when he first came out here. There! Behind the scrubby little wattle, silhouetted against the darkening skyline, he spied the roo’s ears, standing proudly upright. He raised his gun, steadied himself and took careful aim. ‘Missed the bugger!’ Charlie squinting into the distance was amazed to see the ears still there. ‘Heel, Bess. We’ll get a bit closer.’ Keeping his eyes on the ears, Charlie crept forward, carefully avoiding fallen twigs. He flattened himself against a rock which would give him support for a better shot. He took aim and fired again. A goanna scurried up the nearest gum tree, and a sulphur crested cockatoo screeched it’s disapproval to the ruckus, but the ears did not move. ‘Cheeky sod. Stand there looking at me like that? We’ll soon see who’s boss.’ Charlie was annoyed. How could he miss them all? ‘I won’t miss next time.’ Inching forward, Charlie and Bess moved as one, a man and his shadow. Silently, they crossed the dry creek bed, listening for any disturbance. Only the sounds of the bush, the birds settling, and a slight rustle of leaves could be heard; no thump of roos bounding off to safety. Charlie pulled his old hat firmly onto his ears, and slowly raised his head above the level of the creek bank. Scanning the skyline, his temper flared at the sight of the ears still standing upright, mocking him. He raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. He shot again. And again. Still the ears mocked him. How could he miss at this range? Then it dawned on him – different ears, of course. There must be a big mob up there. ‘How many I have shot? Better inspect the carnage.’ He kicked himself for not checking sooner. There might be too many to cook, and Charlie hated waste. ‘Well, blow me down, Bess. Lots of stew here, eh?’ Charlie began to laugh. ‘Me eyesight bad but me mind’s gone as well. Fancy wastin’ bullets shooting flamin’ prickly pear.’ (c) Susan Skowronski 2014
Posted on: Sun, 03 Aug 2014 02:13:45 +0000
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