Flash Fiction: Turkey Day

New flash fiction about Donovan from my recently released blog fiction, Tin Soldier. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers, so go to it!

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For days he had been trying, but it was no use. Donovan thought he was a pretty good shot, but these damn quail were so small and flew up so suddenly...he kicked a clump of withered gramma grass in frustration. What was he supposed to tell the women, after boasting that he would bring down enough quail for a Thanksgiving feast for them and their neighbors? So far he had only managed to get one scrawny bird that not even a child would consider an adequate meal.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to a remark Amalia, the older sister, had made: the God's Candidates cultists raised turkeys, and weren't more than a day's ride away. Buying from them was impossible, though; Donovan's dark skin and obvious mixed-race heritage would get him shot on sight, but who said he had to buy? If they didn't see him....

He headed toward the arroyo, deep in thought. Practical Amalia and her younger, more sensitive sister Carina, had both forbidden him to go anywhere near the cult compound, but although he was a stranger living on their charity, they didn't own him. If he wanted to try his luck at the compound, they couldn't really stop him.

Donovan stopped walking and considered. The women couldn't keep him from going, but the lack of a horse was a serious obstacle. Maybe he could borrow one from the adjoining rancho, though. The Nuñez girl was quick and smart, always up for adventure. If she loaned him one of her family's horses, he could slip out at night and... Oh, yes, it was doable. He shouldered his shotgun and started walking again, composing in his mind how he would broach the matter to the little Nuñez girl.

A sudden stirring in the grasses by the creek stopped him in his tracks and a dark flock rose into the air on thundering wings. Too busy daydreaming, Donovan wasn't able to get off a shot in time, and with a sigh of frustration, he set down his gun and rubbed his face with his hands. Who was he kidding? He would never shoot a quail. He was going through the motions, persisting in the illusion just to put off what was, in essence, inevitable.

For a long moment he looked at the distant mesas, as if daring them to challenge his decision. When the skyline stubbornly remained as it had always been, he picked up his gun again and turned toward the house. He had plans to make.