Skip to main content

Plink.

I was young, then, with a vivid imagination and marked dedication to playing make believe. We walked down the row, scattering rocks and dusting off the silhouettes. I tossed aside a chipped, white stone. Years later I would recognize it as limestone and even develop a certain fondness for it. When all of the iron silhouettes were standing again, we made our way back across the field through the brush.

It was something between a tradition and a routine, lost in the limbo of recurring events. Almost an hour of driving into what seemed like void desert terrain that somehow escaped suburbanization outside of the city. I grabbed a handful of bullets and loaded the rifle. My rifle. A gift my father had given me, a .22 long rifle. I set the rifle down on the table, safety on, and stepped away. We always had fun, but there was a very serious undertone about the whole ordeal. It was unspoken, simply understood. It's fun, but it's not play time. Respect the weapon for what it is.

A weapon.

I'd been raised to be comfortable around guns. There was nothing scary about them. They were simply tools that stayed in a special tool box and the same rules applied to them. You don't run around swinging a hammer around, so you don't run around swinging a gun around.

He always managed to make it a game. The row of farm animal shaped silhouettes across the field from us. He looked down at me as we put on our ear protection.

"What's out there?"

I sighted down my barrel at the rust scarred silhouettes. "Killer chickens, sir."

He thought for a moment, never raising his pistol. "Drop them." He said.

And I pulled the trigger.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Forever ago.

The name caught my eye immediately. Jimmy. Jimmy Talarico. It's funny, but I never really knew the last names of my friends when I was growing up. I guess. I looked him up. He looks much different from the Jimmy I remember. The Jimmy from 2nd grade.
Jimmy and I played robots, I wrote once.

I wonder if he remembers me. The way I remember him. And Anthony Carroll. And Luke and Joe Miller. And Tahsir Rahman. And Caitlin Wright. 2nd grade was a long, long time ago. He's a politician now, I guess. All of his pictures are him dressed in suits, speaking behind podiums. He's very active, politically. I wonder if he still adopts retired greyhounds. He looks very old. Like an aging man. The way he cuts his hair, the way he holds himself. He's not a boy anymore.

"God-gosh." He said. He only said it because it irked Luke. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically.

He ran for a position in student government. His profile is littered with Obama campaig…

Don't look so miserable, there's cake.

I went to a wedding the other day. The second wedding I've been to in less than a year. The second time I've been an usher. The second tie I've been gifted. An interesting thing to watch, I guess. My collection of ties has really exploded in the last couple of weeks. Black, silver, purple, red. Slytherin. Not bad.
But weddings really aren't my scene.
Before the whole thing kicked off, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop with an old friend. Or what used to be an old friend. "I can't imagine it," she said. She didn't look up from her notebook. "I know people in their late twenties who still don't know what to do with themselves. I just can't ever see myself getting married." She glanced up. "You aren't planning on getting married, are you?" I took a sip of my drink. "No." "Okay, good." She said. "I just had to make sure. Getting married at our age is an awful idea. It won'…

Mental see-saw.

I don't really have a good sense of moderation. I never have. It's something I struggle with, I guess. And it seems like it shouldn't be such a problem since balance is one of those tenets I try to base my life around. I guess I have trouble with moderation because I also have trouble with balance.

These things are difficult.

But it's not so much a difficulty exhibiting moderation with vices--drinking, smoking, gambling, womanizing, thievery, leaving toilet seats up, etc.--as it is a difficulty exhibiting moderation in a reflexive sense. It's something I notice most often, and ignore, when I do something that requires physical strain. Like athletics, competitive or otherwise. Most people seem to have a dimmer switch of intensity, where they can appropriately adjust the output of their intensity in response to factors both environmental and personal. They generally never push themselves beyond capacity unless they truly have to, and they make sure to mellow ou…