THERE IS A HARE IN MY KITCHEN
By Barbara Siedle
The neighbour arrived at the front door beaming. He had the hare firmly by the hind legs and held it aloft for me to admire. The hare’s eyes were glazed. I managed to mumble “Thanks very much Dimitri” before shutting the door in his face. But he ambled away good naturedly.
The old knot in my stomach tightened as I turned away. I saw the dead boy’s eyes again in my mind. Glazed like the hare. It was my Billy who had shot the boy. He had shot the boy when he meant to shoot the rabbit.