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The Gunshot - rants and rambles
The Gunshot
Gunshots change everything.   Sometimes they are clearly a mistake, a call for help that goes unheeded for too long, a call which ends up self answered by the drunken decision to end it all, something that might have been averted if only someone else had answered the fucking phone.  Then there are the others.  The ones carefully considered, born of the deepest and most profound despair.  These acts take great care.

The gun was a sign of his genius.  The barrel had been a rod he’d tooled on the lathe.  He’d purchased the staple gun at a hardware store.  This would become the firing mechanism.  He’d bought the shotgun shells at K-Mart.  He’d assembled everything, taping parts together with the black electrical tape he’d always carried in his tool kit, using the care he’d always took when making his creations.  Every wind of tape was precise.  He must not have wanted any error, such as a side explosion where he’d lose his hand, or a misfire which would accomplish nothing.  The trigger itself was a hammer.

He’d assembled everything.   Kneeling on the bed, he’d leaned his chest against the end of the rod, right upon his heart.  He’d used the hammer on the staple gun

It was decisive.  It was genius. It was devouring in its completeness for it took out all that surrounded.   It took out his daughter; damaged, she was filled with a remorse that ate a hole in her brain.  It took out his wife, the mommy, who knew this act was her fault.  It took out his best friend, a soul mate who shared his joy for handmade toys, explosives, machines, and things like this gun.

The devouring, like time, is unending, and like time, it takes away each moment as it moves ahead.  A year almost to the day, the minutes are emptied by the product of genius.  It even makes holes where he’d once painted dragons, and made wooden dollhouses, and built computers, and solved problems people didn’t realize were even there.   His genius, a great thing, a prized thing he himself did not recognize, was the enabler.  The mommy said no guns would ever be bought.  So they weren’t.  Instead, one was made, by genius designed and, with it a precision of execution that would have shocked him, devoured the world.



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