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Target Practice by Terry Schifferns March 28, 2007 Bradley Peterson lived a block away the only boy in a neighborhood of girls It was rumored that he once threw a live cat into a burning trash barrel. Because he got everything he wanted we beat him up. Four girls punched, kicked, and bit. He ran home crying like a sissy. For his birthday he got a playhouse with real windows and curtains, a table and a bench. It would later catch fire but not burn down. He claimed us girls were playing with matches, but really it was him. So we beat him up again. On his next birthday, he got a BB gun. I begged him. Let me shoot it. Please. Just once, let me shoot it. But his mom had warned him, if anyone else shot his gun, she'd take it away. I begged more. Swore I'd aim it at the ground. He handed me the gun. I aimed down. Squeezed the trigger. Shot Bradley Peterson right in the middle of his bare foot. I never shot his gun again. About the author: I live on a small acreage south of the Platte River in the middle of Nebraska with 1 Rottweiler, 1 teenage daughter, and 4 cats, where I listen to the Prairie Home Companion every Weekend. I teach at a local community college, where my students continue to amaze and confound me. At least once a week I recount to my students that according to NPR ... I've published in numerous anthologies like Leaning into the Wind: women Write from the Heart of the West, Slamma Lamma Ding Dong: Anthology of Nebraska Slam Poets and numerous small literary magazines. | | | |
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