firearm is a controversial topic in the united states that seems to split into red conservative states like texas and blue liberal states like california. interestingly, I have not thought about this issue in the context of other countries outside the united states.
The firearm does not mean I quite literally have fire breathing, roaring out of my arm. Unfortunately. Because that would be awesome. I have hardly any experience with firearms. Maybe I should go use my gun rights.
The man reached for his gun, just a moment too late. The man across from him and gotten to his first. He blinked, time had frozen still as he stared across. Was this the end? The end to everything, he had worked so hard for this, how could he have lost. He gave out one last breath as his body crumpled to the floor.
Don’t think. Just shoot. See the enemy and destroy IT. And I say ‘IT’ with heavy emphasis. The enemy is not the same as us. They are NOT human. They. Are. Monsters. And we kill monsters.
She was dangerous, even a blind man could see it. Dangerous and well-armed too, with a firearm on one side – a flintlock by the look – and a falchion on the other. Fingers, long and slim, wrapped elegantly around the hilt of her blade, tapping idly at the leather binding as her eyes scanned the room.
He took the firearms in his hands–about as much as he could carry with the bandage wrapped securely about his left. Running, he shouted out “Maris!”
“Over here!” she cried out in response. Neither of them could stand the thought of what they were about to do, which is why neither of them chose to think about it.
She gazed in awe at the firearm that rested in her fingers. She’d never used a weapon before and to be chosen to carry out a mission that involved a good dozen of these overwhelmed her. A small smile adorned her face as she thought about how much fun she’d have…
My eyes widened at the site of the firearm pointed at my face. I looked up at him in shock. What was he doing? Why was he doing this. A sudden wave of fear washed over me when I realized that he’s found out. He knew.
While his hosts were welcoming to a fault, and had prepared a sumptuous looking array of food for him, he could not help feeling uneasy due to the conspicuous presence of firearms, even in the children’s room.
Fires are terrible. Arms are not.
A combination of the two though results in tragedy.
Boom.
The shot of a high-school kid wanting to be heard amongst his peers.
Boom.
The shot of a poor man without money, facing a dowdy shopkeep.
Boom.
A young girl fearing that nobody loves her.
im not really in the mood to write about firearms. that would take so much energy and im so apathetic. im only typing with one hand right now. its been a weird day. i miss matthew.
i hate firearms because i think of the millions of black children that have fallen prey to illegal firearms primarily provided by citizens of privledged suburban communities. now i know that this is primarily based on stereotypes, but the truth is there
One arm is made of fire, the other of ice. Her eyes shine with the light of the stars, her face flickers with pale moonbeams. One leg is the long branch of a tree, the other made of rocky soil. Her hair is the long grasses of the meadow, tossing in the breeze. She is nature, and she is beautiful.
“What is your name?” I ask her.
“Delaney,” she replied in the sweet voice of songbirds.
Bam! It went off. Else came running in from the next room. “No! No!” she cried over and over. Papa was lying on the ground, the firearm lying next to him, the barrel still hot. Else fell to the ground. What made Papa do this?
It’s a dark night. As I sit in the park, I watch the people as they stroll past me, going on with their day to day lives. I see a man. He reaches into his pocket and [REMAINING TEXT ILLEGIBLE. BLOOD EVERYWHERE.]
Clutching the firearm in his hand, Nathan bolted past the throngs of people, heart pounding. He had to hurry, he had to save Ariana. His legs started to ache but he ignored it and once he laid his eyes on her he fired a shot into her attacker’s chest, and then threw himself into her as a spray of bullets whizzed through the air.
She was safe. And that was all that mattered for now.
As I sat pondering, I remembered the firearm hidden in my bottom drawer. It scared me to have one so near, such a deadly object. Our world is so full of destruction, hate, and death. Any other time I would say, oh yes, this is a helpful tool for our survival… but anymore it just reminds me of the world and what it’s becoming. Why is it in such a beautiful world is there so much violence?
these school shootings need to stop! why do they always go to elementary schools? why harm the little kids? and they always end of killing themselves in the end. it took me some time to understand their action
It happened again. In a supermarket. I read on the screen at the subway station and I wasn’t even surprised. The only question is when it will happen again and not even why. The word fire arm…..firing….an arm firing. A person on the other end with a bad temper and probably, hopefully, regrets.
I see it in my dreams.The gun that killed my father. The bullet entering his back, the soft gasp that exits his mouth as he falls to the ground. His blood stains the floor, stains my hands, stains the back of my eyelids. No matter how hard I try, I can not wash it away.
I stared down the barrel of the gun. I had no idea why i was there or why i was there at that time but i was and the only thought running through my head was ‘firearm’.
Fire, it’s just fire, fire under your skin, the skin of your arm. What did just happened? You asked yourself in a matter of a second looking at your fingers, how they were disappearing right in front of your eyes. Fire, it’s just set up the alarm last night, you don’t remember it, of course not, you were so drunk to even know your own name.
I think of a fireman, “fire” arm I think of as any extension of myself. Do I exude any kind of fire, I wonder? Any kind of passion that burns through any extension of myself?
One time my best friend and I wrote to the president
(At that point it was George Bush)
About gun control.
We were in elementary school,
And it was fairly soon after the attacks at Columbine High School.
We thought that gun safety was very important.
When the bell rang we didn’t put much into it. it did so often, and mostly it was some of the 13-year olds hanging around the cafeteria. i went to the bathroom, but when the flames reached me I couldn’t believe it. So here I am, God. Do you want me?
“and what exactly is a firearm?” he asked. “beats me. how should i know?” i responded. he started to walk up to me and i could almost feel his arrogance as if it was leaking through all his pores and into the air.
None of us were allowed a firearm on our person when we entered the boss’s headquarters. Whether or not it was due to security or paranoia or both was up for interpretation. Even so, the guards were particularly hesitant to even allow me my decorative war knife, which I always carried on me.
“Relax,” I told them, waving my left hand more coaxingly than dismissively. “What do you think I’m going to do with this blunt thing, poke him with it?”
The firearm that Rachel found was not made on Earth. In fact it was clear that it had not been made anywhere in the Milky Way or any other galaxy that had terran trodden.
There was a firearm in his hand, pointed at me with firm intention. I didn’t know what to do in this moment: scream, cry, or try to run away. All that I knew was that I was surely going to die. Ironically, it killed me inside to realize this. I wanted to live my life fully and without regrets. I now know that I had too many unresolved.
Fire my arms in all directions like a crazy cat with no inspection I listen not to your demands and the principle behind my eyes likes to realize that you are not a feline like the mystics described but in fact you’re much more than that. You’re like a tomato. You’re like a gun that can shoot in so many directions and in fact remain in the same state. You’re like the moon with so many shadows and all the time so still. You look like you’re in the dark, but I see you on fire.
I don’t like firearms; they are scary. And yet I think about using them when I am depressed. It isn’t right, it isn’t okay… But what else am I supposed to do to make these feelings go away?
my arm is on fire. help.
I don’t want to die. But if I did, I think a firearm would be a good way to go.
firearm is a controversial topic in the united states that seems to split into red conservative states like texas and blue liberal states like california. interestingly, I have not thought about this issue in the context of other countries outside the united states.
The firearm does not mean I quite literally have fire breathing, roaring out of my arm. Unfortunately. Because that would be awesome. I have hardly any experience with firearms. Maybe I should go use my gun rights.
The man reached for his gun, just a moment too late. The man across from him and gotten to his first. He blinked, time had frozen still as he stared across. Was this the end? The end to everything, he had worked so hard for this, how could he have lost. He gave out one last breath as his body crumpled to the floor.
Don’t think. Just shoot. See the enemy and destroy IT. And I say ‘IT’ with heavy emphasis. The enemy is not the same as us. They are NOT human. They. Are. Monsters. And we kill monsters.
She was dangerous, even a blind man could see it. Dangerous and well-armed too, with a firearm on one side – a flintlock by the look – and a falchion on the other. Fingers, long and slim, wrapped elegantly around the hilt of her blade, tapping idly at the leather binding as her eyes scanned the room.
This object has a potential to bring both danger and protection depending on the way it is used. So use it wisely.
He took the firearms in his hands–about as much as he could carry with the bandage wrapped securely about his left. Running, he shouted out “Maris!”
“Over here!” she cried out in response. Neither of them could stand the thought of what they were about to do, which is why neither of them chose to think about it.
She gazed in awe at the firearm that rested in her fingers. She’d never used a weapon before and to be chosen to carry out a mission that involved a good dozen of these overwhelmed her. A small smile adorned her face as she thought about how much fun she’d have…
My eyes widened at the site of the firearm pointed at my face. I looked up at him in shock. What was he doing? Why was he doing this. A sudden wave of fear washed over me when I realized that he’s found out. He knew.
People who wear firearms don’t always realize the damage they’re doing by wearing them so casually outdoors.
While his hosts were welcoming to a fault, and had prepared a sumptuous looking array of food for him, he could not help feeling uneasy due to the conspicuous presence of firearms, even in the children’s room.
Fires are terrible. Arms are not.
A combination of the two though results in tragedy.
Boom.
The shot of a high-school kid wanting to be heard amongst his peers.
Boom.
The shot of a poor man without money, facing a dowdy shopkeep.
Boom.
A young girl fearing that nobody loves her.
im not really in the mood to write about firearms. that would take so much energy and im so apathetic. im only typing with one hand right now. its been a weird day. i miss matthew.
i hate firearms because i think of the millions of black children that have fallen prey to illegal firearms primarily provided by citizens of privledged suburban communities. now i know that this is primarily based on stereotypes, but the truth is there
One arm is made of fire, the other of ice. Her eyes shine with the light of the stars, her face flickers with pale moonbeams. One leg is the long branch of a tree, the other made of rocky soil. Her hair is the long grasses of the meadow, tossing in the breeze. She is nature, and she is beautiful.
“What is your name?” I ask her.
“Delaney,” she replied in the sweet voice of songbirds.
Bam! It went off. Else came running in from the next room. “No! No!” she cried over and over. Papa was lying on the ground, the firearm lying next to him, the barrel still hot. Else fell to the ground. What made Papa do this?
Mal stepped off of the plank as it lowered to the ground thanks to the air pressure system.
“Watch Serenity while I’m gone.” He shouted behind his back as he stepped onto firm soil.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had touched firm ground without hearing the harsh echo of footsteps against concrete.
It’s a dark night. As I sit in the park, I watch the people as they stroll past me, going on with their day to day lives. I see a man. He reaches into his pocket and [REMAINING TEXT ILLEGIBLE. BLOOD EVERYWHERE.]
Clutching the firearm in his hand, Nathan bolted past the throngs of people, heart pounding. He had to hurry, he had to save Ariana. His legs started to ache but he ignored it and once he laid his eyes on her he fired a shot into her attacker’s chest, and then threw himself into her as a spray of bullets whizzed through the air.
She was safe. And that was all that mattered for now.
As I sat pondering, I remembered the firearm hidden in my bottom drawer. It scared me to have one so near, such a deadly object. Our world is so full of destruction, hate, and death. Any other time I would say, oh yes, this is a helpful tool for our survival… but anymore it just reminds me of the world and what it’s becoming. Why is it in such a beautiful world is there so much violence?
these school shootings need to stop! why do they always go to elementary schools? why harm the little kids? and they always end of killing themselves in the end. it took me some time to understand their action
The gun was cocked, ready, willing. I could see it panting for blood, eyes narrowed, unholstered, pained with the need to sate its lust.
He pulled his firearm and aimed it at the man running towards him.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” he yelled.
It happened again. In a supermarket. I read on the screen at the subway station and I wasn’t even surprised. The only question is when it will happen again and not even why. The word fire arm…..firing….an arm firing. A person on the other end with a bad temper and probably, hopefully, regrets.
I see it in my dreams.The gun that killed my father. The bullet entering his back, the soft gasp that exits his mouth as he falls to the ground. His blood stains the floor, stains my hands, stains the back of my eyelids. No matter how hard I try, I can not wash it away.
I stared down the barrel of the gun. I had no idea why i was there or why i was there at that time but i was and the only thought running through my head was ‘firearm’.
Fire, it’s just fire, fire under your skin, the skin of your arm. What did just happened? You asked yourself in a matter of a second looking at your fingers, how they were disappearing right in front of your eyes. Fire, it’s just set up the alarm last night, you don’t remember it, of course not, you were so drunk to even know your own name.
I think of a fireman, “fire” arm I think of as any extension of myself. Do I exude any kind of fire, I wonder? Any kind of passion that burns through any extension of myself?
One time my best friend and I wrote to the president
(At that point it was George Bush)
About gun control.
We were in elementary school,
And it was fairly soon after the attacks at Columbine High School.
We thought that gun safety was very important.
When the bell rang we didn’t put much into it. it did so often, and mostly it was some of the 13-year olds hanging around the cafeteria. i went to the bathroom, but when the flames reached me I couldn’t believe it. So here I am, God. Do you want me?
“and what exactly is a firearm?” he asked. “beats me. how should i know?” i responded. he started to walk up to me and i could almost feel his arrogance as if it was leaking through all his pores and into the air.
None of us were allowed a firearm on our person when we entered the boss’s headquarters. Whether or not it was due to security or paranoia or both was up for interpretation. Even so, the guards were particularly hesitant to even allow me my decorative war knife, which I always carried on me.
“Relax,” I told them, waving my left hand more coaxingly than dismissively. “What do you think I’m going to do with this blunt thing, poke him with it?”
Fake arms made to combust.
Firearms.
The firearm that Rachel found was not made on Earth. In fact it was clear that it had not been made anywhere in the Milky Way or any other galaxy that had terran trodden.
There was a firearm in his hand, pointed at me with firm intention. I didn’t know what to do in this moment: scream, cry, or try to run away. All that I knew was that I was surely going to die. Ironically, it killed me inside to realize this. I wanted to live my life fully and without regrets. I now know that I had too many unresolved.
“Love is your gun.” – Favorite misheard lyric of mine.
Maybe your arms might feel like they’re on fire if you’re engaged in a passionate hug.
Fire my arms in all directions like a crazy cat with no inspection I listen not to your demands and the principle behind my eyes likes to realize that you are not a feline like the mystics described but in fact you’re much more than that. You’re like a tomato. You’re like a gun that can shoot in so many directions and in fact remain in the same state. You’re like the moon with so many shadows and all the time so still. You look like you’re in the dark, but I see you on fire.
I don’t like firearms; they are scary. And yet I think about using them when I am depressed. It isn’t right, it isn’t okay… But what else am I supposed to do to make these feelings go away?