They were out in some bleak stubble-field in the Midlands again, watching the hard men course hares, when someone first suggested to Claire’s father that he shoot an apple off her head.
His own dogs long since sold, he’d been hovering with his bow, nursing his hangover
with little pulls from his thermos, telling unfunny jokes, trying to get up interest in side bets on some trick shot or other, when the apple was offered with a knowing smile.
A psychologist, had Claire been inclined to visit one, might have said her complicated
history with men was largely inevitable.
When she went to buy a bow of her own (“For hunting”) the salesman asked what size
game she was taking.
“Oh, I’d say 14 stone.”
Now, as the sun sinks behind the treetops, she hears her little terrier-crosses baying, her ex-husband crashing through the undergrowth.
Nocking an arrow, she follows.
Steven lives in Perth, Western Australia, where he buys too many books, provides domestic services to two cats, and occasionally writes.
This story was shortlisted for the June 24 Monthly Micro Competition.