Blacktail
David Arn
SATURDAY would be a good day for slaughter. Martin was sitting in the torn vinyl recliner next to his cook stove. In his lap, there was a Stroh's can he was using for an ashtray. For the second time that night he was trying to count the empties lying on the floor between us.
"For one thing," he said, looking up, "the radio said the front that's dipped down from Canada is gonna stay past the weekend." With two fingers, he rudely pulled at the end of his nose."And for another, it's the first moon."
He put his thumbnail between his teeth and bit down hard. Martin was a stone mason and it showed in his leathery hands—always cracked and dry from mortar. His right fore-finger was blackened from the time he'd smashed it with a hand sledge.
