Chuck

When did it begin?

Some might say it was the public education system. Chaotic and cruel, it was a struggling beast without the funds or heart for rehabilitation. Others would look to homes, broken as they had come to be, offering no respite from a big, mean world. These would claim the gun lobby, others the lack of personal responsibility, a back and forth that never saw an end.

A select few might say that it was simply because of a world cruel enough to produce lead.

Whatever the reasons, wherever the start, Chuck had a gun.

That was bad for everyone. It was a beautiful piece, long and silver, shining like a star when held to the sun. He kissed it once, twice, trying to impart a heavy heart on such a slim barrel. The bullets would carry his hurt. His hurt and a little more, anyway, powered by a little extra umph courtesy of gunpowder.

Chuck stopped in front of the door. Just beyond it was all the hurt and pain, a childhood of torment, an adolescence of screams. It was a homecoming long delayed. He took one deep breath, two just to be sure. It was time to make his entrance. He knew just the way.

Chuck raised the gun to the sky.

I liked the beat of that. So much I'm not going to edit it. It might be positively awful afterwards, but goddammit, I like the movement too much to ruin the afterglow. Seriously, to be finished with it like this is simply heaven.

Have you noticed I put guns in a lot of my short stories? I don't care for the damned things, but they've got a power in imagery, I must admit. There's just something about someone with a lost cause, and a gun to back it up.

Shit. 

I probably incriminated myself, right there.