A child of ten reaches for a bullet. It is a long silver streak of genius. It is a fall into the abyss. It is a gift from an idolized man-child, and he can feel its secrets in the cold heavy weight in his hand.

The years go by. It’s a slow-motion world of childhood fears and wants. He rebels because it is the only way to know he is not like them. They are the adults that he doesn’t know and don’t know him. Love is a haunting memory, warm and scary.

The bullet is real. He is always near it, whether it sits in his special place, or travels with him. It is proof that he is growing into manhood, but he can’t chase away his childish needs.

It will take a gun. A gun that he has begged and prayed for, it seems like all his life.

With it come the rules. The never ending, tiring list of rules, which all adults seem to love more than life itself. He will learn them and obey them because they are the key to his salvation from them.

“The Gun is a responsibility.” “You will respect the Gun.” “You are not to have any bullets for the Gun unless we give them to you.”

The Gun had become a part of him too. He rolled it in his hand in his room. He showed it to his friends who looked up to him with awe.

His father taught him to load it and shoot it. They went into the back yard and hit the trees. Bark shattered and danced before them. The man and the child changed places. The father shook inside himself with love. Love for youth, for excess, for power. He saw life through his child's eyes and wanted it for himself.

But always, he put the bullets away for the next time.

In another world a young man has tested life’s limits since his birth. He has climbed trees until he fell, walked tightropes, and seen over the cliffs of his own fears. He is physical and smart, waiting for a moment to shine his light on the world. He is a lover not a fighter, except when he plays endless video games that allow him touch the silence of death, without the blood.

He will gravitate to the young man with the bullet and the Gun. They must, at some time, become men after all, and it will be a pleasure to see it for themselves, when it comes.

There were some who shied away from the Gun and the bullet. Even though the pull was strong, and the aroma of danger was sweet, they doubted. They stepped away slowly- exiting stage left, holding the memory of something their parents said in their minds, but not knowing quite what it was.

It was in a room in the darkened night that a fear entered in. Outside, the night haunted the children, stalking their innocence. A strange sound, a door opens, and the children walk through, aging as they go.

They will never be young again. They will look back on the door they have left behind and wonder where it leads. Was there another door they could have taken? Was there a way out of the choice they made?

They scramble to understand this new place. Now that the Gun has been loaded with the bullet, it doesn’t seem so bad. They do it over and over again, proving that nothing bad can happen to them. They are young, they are free, and they are in control of their destiny.

They sleep the sleep of babes, waking up to a fresh morning. Nothing has changed. They go on with life, playing the same old games.

But the Gun waits for the child on a table by the bed still sleeping. He awakens, checks it, and rolls it in his hands. He remembers his father’s shinning eyes and pulls the trigger to hear it click.

But there is no click, only a ringing in his ears. The bullet has found its own destiny. It has gone through the back of the body of the other child, exiting between spinal cord and esophagus.

Now there is blood, and pain, and reality.

The Gun, the child, the father, the bullet, the friends, the parents, the town, the nation, the world- all have played a part in this tragedy.

All mourn the loss of innocence.

The child lives. It is a miracle. We will pray that he recovers fully, but we know that we never will.

War is not a dream it's a nightmare. Death is not a game. We all need something sacred in our lives. Must it be that we test ourselves with power rather than love? Is love's lesson worse than death?

Love is a danger far greater than guns. Teach yourselves and your children to respect it. Fear it, find it, and hold it in your hands. Know your limitations, take it out only when it’s safe, and try not to hurt anyone. Don’t play games with love, it can kill.

[This message was edited by Nanzar on 31 July 2003 at 09:16 AM.]

[This message was edited by Nanzar on 15 September 2003 at 12:49 PM.]

Nanzar,

I must admit...I really enjoyed this short story...until the last few paragraphs. Maybe it's just me, but I felt like the story itself (especially the way you portrayed it) had the meaning all inside of it on its own...without having to "preach" it persay at the end. The story itself, the view you took it in, says it all. That'd be my only criticism – that you let the story tell what you wanted it to say...and not have to give a wrapup ending.

I could see it being used best like so:

Now there is blood, and pain, and reality.

(Maybe something like...) Though the child still lives, innocence dies.

For love is a danger far greater than guns.

Just using those key lines (and including another key line for the idea of that the child still lives like you were speaking about) could make the ending all the more profound.

That's just my personal opinion though.

Other than that, wonderful and captivating. Even though I had an idea of what happened (most gun stories end the same), the WAY in which you told it was intriguing and the best part of the story. Great job with this one.

~Gabber



"I'm here for the hard times
The straight to your heart times
Whenever it ain't easy
You can stand up against me
And maybe rely on me
And cry on me

Some day they'll open up your world
Shake it down on a drawing board
Do their best to change you
They still can't erase you..."

Gabber-
Thanks for your comments. I wanted to say so much in this story, but I wasn't sure if I succeeded. I guess that's why it went on a bit and got "preachy." (Or maybe I was pointing a gun of words at the reader!)

I'm glad you liked the style. I wasn't too sure if that worked. I tried to make the story flash before you like parts of a movie.

Did you really think that I made the point that love is the true test of power?

BTW- the boy is in a rehab hospital now. He has moved his feet and arms but the bullet did a lot of damage and it’s going take a while.

I’m still really angry about this. But he is alive, and that’s a miracle. I just think people need to hear about this, and we need to make some attitude changes if we are ever going to prevent this kind of thing from happening.

i don't think anthropomorphizing "the Gun[/b]" serves your purpose. it was not the bullet, or even the mystical hold you create that "the Gun" has on him, but the careless and improper handling of the gun that shot the boy. a parent who allows a child to have unsupervised access to a gun is neglegent and totally complicit in any mishap. as is a parent that would not teach a child proper respect for any instrument of potential death (i doubt he lets a child drive his car...).

i do enjoy the style of this piece. i just find it extremely subjective. but then all art is i suppose...

WHAT WOULD XENA DO?

are you sitting on the soap?

i beg your pardon
i never promised you a rose garden

Zoom-
Thanks for reading and commenting on my story.

Your comments are good. I did put a lot of power into the objects of the gun and the bullet. But they do seem to have a hold on people. They represent something far beyond what they can actually do. They mystify kids- maybe because they are forbidden, but just telling them to respect guns isn't going to stop them from making stupid mistakes.

Kids do lots of dangerous things and some of them are life threatening. They do take cars when they shouldn't and go places they shouldn't, but these dangers seem to pale in comparison to the possibility that they might get hold of a gun with no supervision. That's what our laws allow and I just can't tolerate it any longer!

What do you think of the parent's decision to keep the bullets out of reach instead of the gun? Is there a law against letting your kid have a gun if you hide all the bullets? It was his gun after all, why should they have to keep it away from him?

What I was really trying to get at is the power that guns seem to represent in our culture now. When I was growing up we never thought about having a gun. They were for police and the military and even then we put flowers in the barrels and chanted, "Make love not war."

Where did those ideas go? I miss them

This is a beautiful piece.

I like the way that the gun can be seen as a metaphor for growing into adult and a loss of innocence.

He will learn them and obey them because they are the key to his salvation from them. - This is very resonant. The start of adult choices.

Bark shattered and danced before them. The man and the child changed places. - I find this the best image in your piece. You've captured that splintering of bark perfectly. A good tie in to the metaphor of becoming a man; changing places.

The father shook inside himself with love. Love for youth, for excess, for power. - Starting to get a feel for what the gun represents: love, power.

... endless video games that allow him touch the silence of death, without the blood. - I love this image. Captures the thrill of violent video games for some adolescent boys perfectly.

... there is no click, only a ringing in his ears. - Another top image. I can hear the ring.

I concur with Gabber - the last couple of sentences weaken the piece. I would actually finish on All mourn the loss of innocence. It's a phrase we often hear but this story makes it fresh.

Love yer work.

Thank you Argy. It's great to hear that you got so many of those images and meanings. I agree that the end is too much. I would have changed it here, but then the rest of the comments wouldn't make sense!

I will work on a new ending soon and post it again.

The Bullet -Revised.

(Thanks to all who commented on this piece. Thanks also to the debate with my "friends" in Fight Club, without which this new ending would not have been written.)

A child of ten reaches for a bullet. It is a long silver streak of genius. It is a fall into the abyss. It is a gift from an idolized man-child, and he can feel its secrets in the cold heavy weight in his hand.

The years go by. It’s a slow-motion world of childhood fears and wants. He rebels because it is the only way to know he is not like them. They are the adults that he doesn’t know and don’t know him. Love is a haunting memory, warm and scary.

The bullet is real. He is always near it, whether it sits in his special place, or travels with him. It is proof that he is growing into manhood, but he can’t chase away his childish needs.

It will take a gun. A gun that he has begged and prayed for, it seems like all his life.

With it come the rules- the never ending, tiring list of rules, which all adults seem to love more than life itself. He will learn them and obey them because they are the key to his salvation from them.

“The Gun is a responsibility.” “You will respect the Gun.” “You are not to have any bullets for the Gun unless we give them to you.”

The Gun had become a part of him too. He rolled it in his hand in his room. He showed it to his friends who looked up to him with awe.

His father taught him to load it and shoot it. They went into the back yard and hit the trees. Bark shattered and danced before them. The man and the child changed places. The father shook inside himself with love. Love for youth, for excess, for power. He saw life through his child's eyes and wanted it for himself.

But always, he put the bullets away for the next time.

In another world a young man has tested life’s limits since his birth. He has climbed trees until he fell, walked tightropes, and seen over the cliffs of his own fears. He is physical and smart, waiting for a moment to shine his light on the world. He is a lover not a fighter, except when he plays endless video games that allow him touch the silence of death, without the blood.

He will gravitate to the young man with the bullet and the Gun. They must, at some time, become men after all, and it will be a pleasure to see it for themselves, when it comes.

There were some who shied away from the Gun and the Bullet. Even though the pull was strong, and the aroma of danger was sweet, they doubted. They stepped away slowly- exiting stage left, holding the memory of something their parents said in their minds, but not knowing quite what it was.

It was in a room in the darkened night that a fear entered in. Outside, the night haunted the children, stalking their innocence. A strange sound, a door opens, and the children walk through, aging as they go.

They will never be young again. They will look back on the door they have left behind and wonder where it leads. Was there another door they could have taken? Was there a way out of the choice they made?

They scramble to understand this new place. Now that the Gun has been loaded with the Bullet, it doesn’t seem so bad. They do it over and over again, proving that nothing bad can happen to them. They are young, they are free, and they are in control of their destiny.

They sleep the sleep of babes, waking up to a fresh morning. Nothing has changed. They go on with life, playing the same old games.

But the Gun waits for the child on a table by the bed still sleeping. He awakens, checks it, and rolls it in his hands. He remembers his father’s shinning eyes and pulls the trigger to hear it click.

But there is no click, only a ringing in his ears. The Bullet has found its own destiny. It has gone through the back of the body of the other child, exiting between spinal cord and esophagus.

Now there is blood, and pain, and reality.

Many who were not there feel the terror of this moment, many feel the guilt, but many more will never know about it. We mourn their ignorance, and we morn our own loss of innocence.

The child will live. He will spend the next year getting used to pain and boredom. He is just a statistic now. One more child hurt by a culture that loves guns more than people.