cars will one day reside in the museums of hate

BROPHY

Often as he walked about the city, the rhythm of his steps would draw thoughts to the surface.
The time when his brother had shot a Collared-dove. They were standing in the front garden
to the left of the smaller of the two weeping willows. The roots of which were always dislodging
the sewage pipes. His brother aiming up at an Elm tree in the field across the road. The soft
flat puff of the air-gun and a light grey triangle tumbles out of the branches.
They stand silent for a moment, before his brother's friend who was older than them and had supplied
the new rifle with the telescopic sights - elects to "finish it off". When they reach the dove it is still alive
this is some what of a shock to them. Maybe they had expected the addition of the telescopic sight to have
performed the deed with such accuracy that one pellet would have been enough to bring instant or even
painless death. The older boy bends its flapping wings together, this pushes the birds chest out in an
exaggerated fashion. He holds the wings down with his boot. Then loads and fires five pellets, there is a
horrific muffled slap as they puncture the flesh stretched taut. A few purple-nibbed feathers are mixed
amongst the cow's-shit churned up by their boots. He felt in the pit of his stomach that it wasn't a fun
game anymore, and was sure his brother felt the same way, although they never talked about it.