The Slingshot

By Peter Bowden



The branch came from the live oak near the creek, gnarled and just the right shape. The man held it up to the sun and turned it in his hands. “This’ll do,” he said. The boy nodded, eyes wide, hands tucked in his pockets to keep from reaching too soon. They sat on the porch steps with a knife that had skinned peaches and cut rope, and now shaved bark down to the smooth core.

The twine came from the shed. It smelled of old hay and forgotten summers. They tied it tight, looping through the tongue of a shoe long outgrown, leather cracked but strong. The man tested the stretch of the rubber bands—pulled from the drawer where batteries and buttons lived—and gave the boy a wink. “You’ll have to learn to aim straight,” he said. “It’s more than just pull and let go.”

When it was done, the boy held it like a relic. Not a toy, but a rite. They walked to the edge of the field where pine cones lay in soft piles. The first shot missed by a mile. The second thudded low. But the third—a whistling arc—struck the fence rail dead center. The boy turned to the man, smiling. The man only nodded, already whittling another branch.


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