Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Lions at Lamb House Review of Jamestown Review of The Children of Húrin Review of The Politics of Life Film Review of "300" Creative Nonfiction Home By Marion Agnew One Foot and Then the Other By Greg Coykendall Poetry Hannah Plays with Light By Kristine Ong Muslim Caricature of an Early Planter By Michael Lee Johnson Comes a Push-Cart Down a Long-Ass Ghazal By Levon DeBranch Modern Day Moses By Bob Boston Squares (2) Plaza De Armas, Santiago, Chile By Graham Burchell Fiction The Larchmont Campaign By Zain Deane Body Warmth By Louise Kantro The Good People Up North By T.M. Spooner Triple Word Score By Patricia C. Meringer Texans Abroad By Franklin Strong Hunting for Manhood By Jason Sizemore Staten Island Zen By Michael Enright About the Contributors © 2007, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Education Blog Contributing Editor - Jordan Wirfs-Brock Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
Hunting for Manhood By Jason Sizemore How many nights did I sit beneath the gleaming stars, on top of a frosty mountain ridge straining my ears against the night sounds of the Appalachians? I was always listening for the baying of hound dogs chasing their prey. Next to me, always, was my father. This was the bonding of father and son, the same way it had been practiced for generation upon generation in my Appalachian community. “You hear that?” he would ask, placing his hand on my shoulder in breathless anticipation. Most of the time, I didn’t hear a thing. But I trusted Dad’s judgment, and this time, I said “Yes” anyways. “I think Pinky treed one. On past Double Creek ridge.” There it was, like a forbidden secret whispered in my ear, I heard Pinky’s barks riding the cold, light mountain breeze. My dad paused a moment in the darkness. I sensed he mulled something of importance in his mind. I stayed quiet, respectful, holding my breath in anticipation. “Here son, you carry the rifle,” he said, finally. “Tonight, you’re gonna make the kill.” Stunned, I accepted the heavy firearm in my scrawny arms. My heart pounded. If he had allowed it, I would have hugged my dad. He considered me a fellow adult, at least for this evening. I shouldered the rifle and stood tall for my small height. This evening, I would make my dad proud. We switched on our lights, a pair of mining lights lifted from Sandy Fork Coal the day they laid my father off from his job of twenty-three years. Up the mountainside we climbed, going off the path into the tangle of brush and briars. We struggled for several hours, making a beeline to the sound of old Pinky barking like a rabid mutt at an animal hidden high in a tree. When we finally arrived, sweat steamed off our bodies into the cool, cloudless night. “Here-uh Pinky!” my daddy called. With some effort, he chained the slobbering hound to a sturdy sapling some yards away, petting and playing with her to reaffirm the canine instinct to hunt and chase. Then he walked over to me and looked intently up into the tall sycamore tree. “See anything?” he asked, playing his light over the leaves and limbs. “Hold on! Right there, I see it!” I aimed my light right into the animal’s eyes. My heart sank. This was no raccoon. It was a possum. All that climbing was for naught. Dejected, we both took a seat on moldy, rotted log and caught our breath. “Well, son, we fought through hell to make it here.” He paused for a minute, and then slapped his knee. “I still want you to shoot’er out.” Who was I to say no? This was manhood. This was the test chosen by my dad. To prove myself, I had to kill that pitiful animal trapped up in the sycamore tree. I stood, loaded the rifle, and took aim through the sight. I squeezed the trigger. The next sound I heard was a crack, then a thud, and then Pinky barking like a creature possessed. “Damn, son!” Dad whooped in excitement. “You got’er on the first shot!” My father grabbed the possum by the tail and swung it over a low hanging limb. Blood dripped from its mouth. I could hear its hoarse breathing from where I stood. “A damn fine shot you are. Wait till I tell my huntin’ buddies we’ve got a new partner,” my dad exclaimed. He smiled at me, proud as could be, and patted me on the back. “Are we just going to leave it there?” I asked; swallowing back a surge of stomach bile mixed with guilt. “What else are we goin’ to do with it? You can’t cook possum, tastes too greasy.” My father turned and unhooked Pinky from the tree. “Ready, son?” The possum stared at me with dying eyes. The animal’s death meant my manhood. I should have felt proud. Instead, I felt shame. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to take back the bullet, somehow convince dad that I would kill the next one. But, when my father walked over and saw me crying, he just snorted. He snatched the rifle from me and with a gruff “Let’s go,” commanded me back to the truck with him. After that day I never went hunting again. After that day, my father never asked again. |