shooting hummingbirds in the mimosa tree

by jody brooks

    I know I can shoot one. It’s a matter of letting it come to you, waiting until it sticks its pointy beak in the end of your BB gun, then pulling the trigger. It’s not like shooting a snake, or something you can chase after. That’s easy. It’s not about finding them. It’s not a hunt. It’s more like a silent ambush with a pink flower.

    The problem is that the mimosa tree is right by the playground so it can be loud and the birds scare easy. The problem is that when I come down here I have to bring my little sister, promise to watch her. So I put her on the monkey bars, tell her to be careful and I crawl up the tree with my gun on my back.

    The trick is to paint the barrel with Testors #FS30118 model-tan so it looks like a branch. Find the biggest, fluffiest bloom, red like the throats of those stupid birds, leave a two-and-a-half inch stem on it and stick it in the end of your gun. Lie down on a thick branch, hook one foot under to keep balance, scoot out, rest the gun in a v, and stick your flower out further than the rest. Hold still. Don’t move when a bee lands on your arm. Don’t move when your sister calls watch this. Don’t move unless the wind blows, then mimic the movement of the tree so your flower doesn’t look too stiff. You’ll hear the birds buzz in, buzz out. Don’t turn your head. Don’t look. Keep your finger on the trigger, half-pressure.

    When your sister cries out, stay still, so still because it could be coming to your flower, it could be using that scream as a test to see which flower will move and which will stay. Don’t let them win. Keep your eye on the soft pink flower at the end of the barrel. Be still.

Jody Brooks is fiction editor of New South. She lives and works in Atlanta, Georgia.

complete conversations with my father:

unprovoked and about which i am still confused

by jody brooks

Dad:   “You remember Uncle Snooze?”

Me:    “No.”

Dad:  “He lived over where I shot that deer in the ass. Had a great swimming pool.”

D:      “You ever hear of Goat Man?”

M:      “Not that I recall.”

D:      “He used to live up in that cove. They called him Goat Man because he came down

             from the mountains once a month with his cart and his goats. I never knew what

             he was selling, but people always had to go see him about something.”

D:       “You ever meet Bang Bang LaFarr? Guy that sold chicken diapers?”

M:       “I don’t understand any part of that question.”

D:       “Bang Bang, sold chicken diapers. You know, the absorbent pads at the bottom

            of Styrofoam chicken containers. He sold those.”

D:       “You remember Iva, Charlie’s mother?”

M:       “Vaguely.”

D:       “When we were kids, Charlie covered his walls with Playboy pin-ups. Iva cut out

              party dresses for every one of those ladies and pinned them on when they had     

              company. She was proud of that.”

D:        “You remember Tommy and Wayne?”

M:        “Kind of.”

D:       “Every day, same time, they’d carry their foldout chairs to the grassy spot beside

              the depot and watch the train go by. Then they’d fold them up and go home.

              That’s the way to do it.”

D:        “You remember what your great grandmother used to do?”

M:        “Tell me.”

D:       “She used to wait for the nurse to go on rounds and she’d play dead. The nurse

             would lean down close, real close to check for breath and Granny Tom would say

             ‘Boo.’ Crazywoman. You never knew what would come out of her mouth.”