Briars

The rabbit was splayed out like Jesus on the spit. I noticed when we cook rabbits, if we don’t cut their heads off first, their mouths cook open like they’re screaming. But Jesus didn’t scream. He knew he’d be right back. He knew he wasn’t getting eaten.

Dad doesn’t like it when I talk about God or Jesus. He said if God existed, he wouldn’t let this happen to us. I don’t tell him what I think: that maybe we just missed the boat this time. I don’t know what I did wrong. I tried to ask Dad what sins would keep me out of heaven, but he said I was too young to worry about that stuff.

Rabbits don’t go to heaven or hell because they don’t have souls. That’s why it’s okay to kill them. I saw Dad kill a man. He told me to hide but he did not tell me not to look so I did. Dad said it wasn’t a sin because the man wanted to hurt us and rob us, but I know that Exodus says you shouldn’t kill a thief in the daytime. I used to think Dad knew the book better than I did. Maybe he forgot.

Fat drips off the meat and falls into the fire and makes popping noises that remind me of gunshots. Dad won’t teach me how to shoot a gun, but I have been practicing while he is away. I check it is empty and squeeze until it clicks and imagine I’m shooting rabbits. Really, they are too small to shoot, we have to catch them in snares. I imagine it anyway.

The book of Matthew says the meek shall inherit the Earth. I used to think that meant us. Rabbits don’t scream as loud as people.

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Jason Caudle is a writer of Fiction living in the upstate of South Carolina. He received his Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of South Carolina and is pursuing a Master of Fine Arts at Converse College. His short stories have been published in Quibble and featured in Fairlight Book's short story spotlight.