The Cold Blind

 

Written in the style of the novelist, Ernest Hemingway.

It was Christmas morning. The cold cut. Snow began to fall, fine and hard, driven by the wind off the marsh. The clouds hung heavy, gray as a winter duck's wing. He knelt in the blind, the wet reeds sharp against his face. The shotgun was cold in his gloved hands. Beside him, Jack, the Boston, was still. A good dog. Knew his business. He watched the sky, his eyes sharp, his short coat frosted. They waited. The silence was big, broken only by the wind and the soft landing of snow on the ice-skinned water. Then, a flicker. Low on the horizon. He brought the gun up, slow. Jack tensed, a ripple of muscle. The duck came fast, dark against the heavy sky. He breathed out. Held it. Squeezed. The shot broke the morning. The duck folded. Jack was out of the blind before the bird hit the water. He was a good dog.

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