That clearing won’t leave my mind alone.

As if there’s a threshold there — between one world and another.

Between truth and lies.

A true purpose or an imaginary desire.

Cold precision and азарт.

 

I know for certain that truth is always stronger than lies. But how do you speak it if it will cause anger, disappointment, or make someone walk away?

 

…

 

Perfect weather for clay shooting practice. Yes, it’s not exactly the same as target shooting. There — patience, cold calculation, breathing, and smooth movements, like in slow motion. Nothing distracts you or prevents you from sending the bullet straight into the center of the target.

 

But with clay pigeons — buckshot: bang — shattered. Bang — shattered.

What if you tried to combine the two?

 

I brought him to an open shooting range from the indoor range.

 

— Want to try?

— You gonna show me?

 

He’s bold. It’s a challenge.

 

I step onto the firing line.

 

Need to focus. Inhale — exhale. The familiar breathing routine balances my thoughts, calms my heartbeat.

 

I always remember my first shot — alone against a distant black circle.

 

I imagine a beam extending from the rifle barrel into its center, and I need to catch it between the front and rear sights.

 

Got it. I stare without blinking.

 

Inhale, hold — then slowly begin to exhale. At the same time, my finger presses the trigger. I’m not waiting for clicks or resistance — I simply guide it backward, slowly and steadily.

 

The stock is pressed tightly into my shoulder, my hands hold the support firmly.

 

Trigger break.

 

My body feels how the tiny piece of metal, pushing away from the base of the cartridge and transferring that impulse into the rifle and shoulder, bites tightly into the rifling grooves of the barrel and, spinning, rapidly gaining speed, flies toward the target…

And only after the shot, when the ringing instantly deafens my ears, comes the full exhale.

 

Hit!

 

Now I’ll do the same thing with a fast-moving piece of clay.

 

— Pull the first!

 

Around us, everyone falls silent, watching in surprise as some oddball prepares to shoot clay targets with a rifled carbine.

But I can do it.

 

— Pull!

 

A swift shadow.

Shot.

Nothing.

 

Missed.

 

A faint chuckle…

 

It happens. I know what comes next.

 

— Second!

 

— Pull!

 

Clay fragments burst apart.

 

A surprised “Wow” rises around us.

 

— Two!

 

Duvv — fragments.

Duvv — fragments.

 

— Five!

 

Duvv.

Duvv.

Duvv.

Duvv.

Duvv.

 

Everything — shattered…

 

Silence.

 

At first, weak applause. Louder. Louder.

And then everyone is cheering in stunned excitement.

 

— There. Now you.

 

— Listen, that was awesome!

 

He steps up, prepares himself. Slightly tense.

 

— Breathe slower. Imagine it’s the same target — only moving. Nothing else changes.

 

— First.

 

Duvv — miss.

 

— Second.

 

Duvv — miss.

 

— Third.

 

Miss.

 

Murmurs and laughter spread around.

 

— Again.

 

— Wait.

 

— Again.

 

Duvv — miss.

 

His eyes burn with anger and shame.

 

— Again.

 

— No.

 

— Again.

 

— Enough.

 

Duvv.

 

…

 

A cloud of feathers and the dull thud of a pigeon falling to the ground gave birth to another long silence.

 

— Hit.

 

— He won’t be able to answer for the fact that you took away what mattered most to him.

 

— I don’t care. I needed to hit it. I hit it.

 

— Yes. But not the clay.

 

— Doesn’t matter.

 

— It does. Because that’s the road leading the other way.

We do not shoot to satisfy our ego.

We shoot only where we intend to… and nowhere else.

 

Training is over. Tomorrow — back to the range.

 

— In sport, yes. But sport isn’t all of life.

 

— You gonna clean him up?

— Nature will take him back itself.

 

He spat angrily to the side and walked off quickly.

 

I went into the field. There he was. Shot clean through. A rifle doesn’t mutilate — it simply takes life away.

 

I crouched down and pulled out a bag.

 

— Sorry, buddy… he didn’t mean…

No. He did. He just couldn’t stop himself.

 

I don’t know what to say to a dead bird with ruffled wings.

 

— Ah… just forgive him.

 

I placed him into the bag and walked away.

 

…

 

How could this happen?

I never said… never even thought about this.

 

I think I hear footsteps in the darkness.

 

No, just my imagination…

Not now.