This is an excerpt from one of my short stories. Although it's never been published, this piece has won numerous awards.

GOD'S BAD AIM

by Jeanne Lyet Gassman

Michael Hanson hated Winslow almost as much as he hated going to see his father. If it were not for his wife, Lisa, and her firm belief in paternal ties, Michael would not have returned to Arizona at all. After he had left home for college, he vowed never to go back. Even so, with careful planning and procrastination, he had managed over the years to arrange for his "annual" visit to occur approximately every fourteen months.

This year he was able to delay the trip until early October when he finally phoned his father to tell him that he would be flying into Phoenix the following Monday. "But don't bother to pick me up," he said. "I'll rent a car."

When he stepped off the plane at noon onto the tarmac of Sky Harbor Airport, the mercury was tipping close to 100 degrees. He shielded his eyes against the blinding white-hot sky, sucked in a breath of burning air, and wished all over again that he’d found a reasonable excuse to stay home.

The four-hour drive up the Beeline Highway through the mountain passes to Winslow was a welcome respite from the baking heat and city traffic. Forcing his increasing dread back into a protected pocket in his mind, he focused on the gray ribbon of road in front of him and the view outside his car window. Slowly, the landscape evolved from low desert cacti to rolling hills with small evergreens to the tall pines of the Mogollon Rim. By the time he had followed the winding road over the Rim down into the barren environs of the high altitude desert, the sun was already hanging low and red in the sky. A small dust devil swirled up leaves and debris through the main intersection of Winslow as he exited into downtown. Five minutes later, he parked in front of his childhood home.

The house always seemed smaller than he remembered, and he was aware that it was badly in need of fresh paint. When Michael's parents were still married, they had taken good care of the place. Since his brother Donald's death and the divorce, his father had let the house fall apart. Rather than fix a leaky roof or replace a cracked window, his father simply moved himself out of the space. Michael had tried to make small repairs during his infrequent visits, but it seemed pointless. He couldn't combat them both: the forces of nature and the will of his father. He was surprised to see this time that his father had shored up the front fence.

He had just opened the car door when he saw his father coming up the sidewalk with two bags of groceries in his arms.

"You were so late," he said as Michael took the bags from him, "that I decided to go on down to Safeway to pick up something for dinner."

"That's okay. I'm not that hungry. I stopped in Payson for a bite."

"That was dumb," his father said. "You knew I would feed you." He lifted the sagging front gate over the grass. "Been here long?"

Michael shrugged. "Not too long, I guess. A few minutes."

"You should have gone inside. The house was unlocked."

"I didn't want to have to fight with your dogs." Already Michael could hear the loud chorus of barking from behind the front door.

The older man snorted. "Who? Sookie and Julie? Sookie's nothin' but a dustball and Julie…well, now, you might have a point there. I have to admit Julie is a pretty good old watchdog. She would defend her territory, all right."

"Julie would rip my eyes out and then smile about it."

"She's just devoted, that's all." His father pushed open the door, and Julie, a German Shepherd mix, bolted through, nearly knocking him over with her devotion. The little dog, Sookie, danced around their heels. A low growl rumbled in Julie's throat when she saw Michael, but then his father patted her on the head, and she wagged her tail. Michael pushed his way past the dogs and followed his father to the kitchen.

"So how's Lisa?" his father asked as he set the groceries out on the counter.

"She's fine. She sends her love." Michael marveled at his father's dexterity at the stove. When he was a kid, his father never entered the kitchen except to eat and refresh the ice in his whiskey. Now he was creating an elaborate salad while he pan-fried a pork chop. "Lisa would have come with me," he offered, "but since school's already started…"

"Yeah, I know. She's got obligations to her students." He tossed some meat to the waiting dogs. "And how's the kid? He still acting like some dippy Hippie?"

"Steven is fine. He still has his ponytail, but he keeps it clean, so it's okay." Michael knew that his father didn't approve of his eleven-year-old son, but then his father had never approved of him either.

"You should eat something," his father said, setting two plates on the floor for the dogs.