PLAYTHING
Brett Pransky

I'll never forget that dog. A hound of some sort, full grown and floppy eared, beautiful, but not purebred. The dirty coat that wrapped around his stout frame probably began white, then faded and browned slightly as a result of a life lived mostly in the wild. Black spots decorated his thick shoulders and head in a random manner, as if he once had an unfortunate accident with a can of paint.

I watched his limp ears flap up and down as he ran across the open field. I could have sworn he was trying to gain enough speed to lift off and fly away on those immature hound wings.

Then he stopped. Suddenly. And a cold-wet nose dove into the high weeds. A taut silence stole the noise from the wind and the birds. Like me, they stopped to watch that magnificent animal perform his half-wild ballet on the grassy stage of nature.

The dog's head shot up. I was so startled by the speed of it I nearly pulled the trigger of the hunting rifle on my hip. His nose pointed to the sky, his mouth opened, and a ball of fur flew from his mouth up, up, up, into the air. When it reached the peak of its ascent, I saw the long ears of a rabbit. It didn't struggle at first. The shock of its impending doom hadn't subsided yet. If God grabbed me and launched my body into the atmosphere, it would take me a second or two to catch on to what was happening. Everyone, everything freezes at the first sight of Death and the Almighty. At that moment, to that helpless creature, the hound was a vengeful god, snapping up an absolute innocent as a plaything. It was amazing.

As it fell, the rabbit began to scream, and the sound of terror felt too large to be associated with a thing so small. It was a man-sized squeal. It could have been mine. When the dog's jaws snapped shut, the silence returned. Up and down, the muted game continued, and I marveled at the self-proclaimed ruler of all creation. That's what it is to take a life; it is to declare yourself lord over it. That dog stood on center stage and, by instinct, unseated his creator by making a toy of death. He was truly a glorious creature. Then a twig snapped under my feet, and the ruler turned my way, a fresh kill between his teeth. The dead thing dropped to the ground, and the hound ambled over to me, a playful look on his blood-covered face. His tail wagged as I closed the lever on the bolt-action hunting rifle and took aim. It didn't struggle or scream.

The birds flew from the trees as the report from the rifle echoed over miles and miles of God's creation. I was on center stage, the new lord over life. I looked up to the clouds, through the clouds, past the sky, and prepared myself to be snatched up and tossed into the atmosphere like the plaything I am.

© Brett Pransky

Brett Pransky is a loving husband and a modest writer, with the emphasis on the former. Brett placed second in the Legend Press Short Story Competition. His entry, Commitment, will be featured in an anthology entitled The Remarkable Everyday, due to launch on October 22. His work has appeared in Antimuse and The Morpo Review, and will soon be included in the pages of Remark. He also publishes the occasional article in Business First Magazine. Brett is currently an undergraduate student at Ohio University, where he is pursuing a degree in English.

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