Young Writers Society

t's windy. It’s always windy in New Mexico. Dirt pelts like tiny bullets into my face, hair flying around madly. I look around at my desert surroundings that are so familiar to me. The rolling hills covered with rich, orange sand and dotted with scrawny grayish-green shrubs and cactuses. The sun setting ahead casts a glossy pink glow over the Sandia Mountains like a cerise-colored silk blanket. Sandia... 'watermelon' in Spanish. Fitting.

“Dad, I don’t think this is a good idea…” I say, hesitance thick on my tongue.

“Nah,” my dad replies, shaking his head and grinning in a sort of reckless way. It's funny that men always keep that child inside of them. They never seem to really grow up. “It’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say,” I sigh, apprehension brewing in the pit of my stomach.

Father takes the four prickly hay bales out of our black truck. He sets them on top of each other like those baby blocks with the letters painted on them. The fierce wind knocks them down immediately, strands of hay spiraling like desert snow in the air.

He frowns and scratches the back of his head. After a moment, he gets into the car and backs it up right behind the pile of hay bales. I’m confused, but I don’t say anything. I just watch as he props the hay against the back of the trunk. He then pins on the target and hands me all of my archery equipment. “All set!” he says brightly.

I look at the scene dubiously. “Dad, this is not going to turn out good,” I mutter.

He waves his hand. He won’t listen to me.

Reluctantly, I put on my wrist guard and finger guard. I wipe the hair out of my eyes again and again, but it does no good. I sigh and take an arrow from my father’s hand. I attach the arrow to the string, straining to hear that satisfying click over the roaring wind. I aim for the target, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. I pull back hard, letting my knuckles graze my windblown cheeks. I let go and watch the arrow dart gracefully into the blue ring, though wobbling in the wind.

I grab another arrow and follow the same procedure. As I let go, a tremendous gust pushes against the arrow. It flies up, sailing over the hay bales and suddenly I hear a loud crack. My eyes grow wide and I drop my bow immediately, running. My dad reaches the car first, and gapes at the window. The arrow is half way inside the window. The glass all around it looks like a ripple in frozen water.

I want to cry. “Oh my gosh,” I gasp. “Oh, dad! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

To my surprise, he laughs. “Its fine, Holly,” he says lightly, embracing me. “It’s all my fault. I should have listened to you.”

He takes the arrow out and smashes the glass from the inside, so it won’t break while we’re driving home and hurt us. He puts the bales of hay back and I load my stuff into the car sadly. I feel like I’ve made my father ashamed of me. But, in his grin, I know he’s forgiven me.

Driving home, hay swirling inside our car through the broken window; what a sight we make.