He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he first swung his gun to fit inside his shoulder, made his stance full, and aimed; it was almost as though time had stopped and reshaped around him. Here he noticed the sensory: there seemed to be no discernible smell to the air. It was quiet enough to hear the wind. There was the urge to breathe hard, to clear his throat, to shuffle his feet so the deer would run away. But there, squinting at the swatch of skin on the animal’s flank he was meant to aim for, seeing his own life in the breath that left his nose in visible puffs, he couldn’t move.
Published by Junto Magazine, Vol.1, Issue 2