Short Story: Good Shot

Following from the previous post on The Anatomy of a Short Story and the techniques of writing to enthuse your readers, this is a sample short story generated using ChatGPT to refresh you and let your imagination take flight.

Image credits: ChatGPT

"It was a breezy Sunday afternoon, and the sky above the kampung house was a soft watercolor of cloud and sun. The old mango tree behind the porch swayed gently as a boy and his grandfather sat on its weathered bench, the cicadas humming like a distant applause.

“Ah, when I was your age,” Grandpa began, puffing on nothing but the air and a memory, “I could bring down a bird from that tree with just one smooth snap of a catapult.”

Ten-year-old Aiman, cradling his rescued kitten Puteh in his arms, looked up with an uneasy frown. “You killed birds, Tok Wan?”

The old man chuckled, his eyes twinkling like dusk stars. “Not always, boy. Not always. Let me tell you about one time. The time that changed everything.”

Grandpa leaned back, letting the memory stretch across decades.

“I was about eleven. Had a prized catapult I carved myself from a forked branch—smooth as river stone, rubber bands tight like a tiger’s muscle. There was a bird, a merbah jambul, sitting pretty on the wire behind our house. Its crown so red, it looked like it had stolen a spark from a firecracker.”

“I raised my catapult, pebble tucked just right. I could already taste the victory, feel the swagger in my walk.”

Aiman shifted uncomfortably. Puteh let out a soft mewl as if in protest.

“But then…” Grandpa’s voice dropped low, like a leaf falling without sound. “I hesitated.”

“What happened, Tok Wan?” Aiman asked, almost whispering.

“I looked at that bird, and for the first time, I saw it,” Grandpa said. “Not just as a target, but as a creature breathing the same air I did. Its little chest was rising and falling, and its eyes… they weren’t afraid. Not yet. Just curious. Trusting, almost.”

“I thought about what it meant. The pebble would hit, feathers would burst, the body would fall. And then what? I’d win? I’d brag? And the bird would just… stop being?”

He drew a shaky breath. “I remembered the nest near the bamboo grove. Maybe it had chicks waiting. Maybe a mate calling from the distance. Or maybe… it just wanted to sing another song tomorrow.”

“So,” Aiman asked, leaning in, “did you shoot?”

“I did.” Grandpa smiled. “But I aimed wide. The pebble flew clean past. The bird fluttered, startled, and took off into the open sky like a paper kite in the wind.”

Aiman grinned, relief washing over his young face. “That’s good, Tok Wan. I don’t like hurting animals.”

Grandpa reached out and gently patted Puteh on the head. “Neither do I anymore, Aiman. That day, I put away the catapult. Learned there’s more strength in choosing not to pull the trigger.”

“Did you ever tell your friends?”

Grandpa’s grin turned sly. “Let them believe I missed by accident. Let them think old Ibrahim’s aim failed him once. Only I knew the truth—and that truth felt better than any trophy.”

Aiman snuggled closer to his Tok Wan. “You’re kind of a hero, Tok Wan.”

The old man laughed, soft and honest. “Maybe, boy. Or maybe just an old fool who listened to his heart before his hand.”

And in the tree above them, a bird called out. Not the same one from long ago—but perhaps, in some way, a descendant of that mercy.

And both of them listened."

Click here for 5 Tips for Crafting the Perfect Short Story by Louise Marburg.

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