He was forged in the fires of love and desire, you could see it in his eyes. Those arms hot as hellfire wrapped around my torso, laying me down gently. Blood pulsed from my gaping wound, the bullet squirming it’s way through my insides and he watched me, hovering like a predator who had just made the kill. It was his.
The gun in his hands trembled almost as as badly as his heart was fluttering in his chest. Jamie looked towards the man lying dead over the kitchen counter, the body slowly being pulled down to the floor by gravity. It hit linoleum with a soft thud, blood beginning to pool where the bullet entered his body. It trickled over to Jamie’s shoes, sticky and warm even through the leather. The girl in the corner released a screech that she did not know she was holding as the gun fell from his hands. He was a murderer.
I’m a firearm’s enthusiast. He declared proudly. She wasn’t quite sure what to think. It was the subject of hot debate in the country, and maybe that’s why she was compelled towards him. It gave him a sort of bad boy status.
The firearm rested heavy in my arm. Move ahead! They’re approaching! I heard a cry from the front. Then I heard the yelling, the gunshots. I stormed ahead.
Firearms are dangerous. If you don’t know how to use them, then stay away from them, because you can kill other people and yourself. Don’t use firearms unless you know how to use them
I never thought of Dad’s guns as “firearms.” They were just his hunting rifles, the old shogun that had belonged to my grandfather, the .22 that he used to shoot the woodchucks that raided the garden. I know they were firearms, of course, but they were just a part of the house, like the coffee grinder and the washing machine. Just tools.
It was a peculiar sort of firearm, all strange overlapping bits and a barrel that was covered in what looked like fish scales. I couldn’t even find the trigger at first; I located it at last on the top of the barrel, as if whoever fired it would have to do so with their teeth.
aim. take a deep breath. see it, you have to put it in the cross hairs. you are the most powerful man in the world, at least according to the poor bastard you are aiming at, even though he doesn’t know it. kinda freaky ain’t it?
He was just an ordinary policeman and that’s how he wanted it to stay. The bobby on the beat who knows everyone in the village not the policeman in a flak jacket and carrying a firearm.
His firearm dropped from his hand with a resounding clatter. The noise seemed to bounce off the close-set walls, nearly screaming out his decision for pacifism for all to hear.
I shot the sherrif and he turn around and said what the hell are you doing young lady, you are supposed to wear high heels not shoot around like a soldier, but anyway, good shot, where did you learn that?
it was dark in the room – the smell of wood smoke and rosemary hung heavy around her. Quietly she looked up from the edge of the bed, a sad smile on her face. “Will it hurt she asked” a tear rolling down her soft cheek. “No” he whispered, “well maybe a little.” He reached toward her face hand outstretch to catch the drop. “It’s going to be okay baby”, he said shrugging a little and dropping his hand to his side. She glanced at the table where the firearm lay and realized that nothing in this world would make her pick it up. He paced to the window and glanced out at the moonless night. “It’s darker than Satan’s bowels out there” he said with a low laugh.
Slowly she stood from the bed and stood behind placing her head against his strong back. “we’ll just run” she said tears pouring from her golden eyes now. “we’ll leave it all and never come back.” he turned pulling her against his chest and running his hands through her hair. “The thing about running” he said his lips against her head “is that once you start you can never stop and you can never turn back.”
His arm was on fire. Her touch was soft and feverish, delicate but endlessly supple.
When she sat down on his bosom, his other parts started warming up too.
Then he remembered, and found that the gun he had been holding was no longer in his hand, but in hers. In their few seconds of contact, her hand had left a trail of cooling sweat droplets on his arm. Now her hand held the gun, against the side of his head.
They thought they needed more of firearms, canons, warheads and people to give their lives for the cause. The little transparent purple creature looked down from his pancake-bus, and couldn’t understand. In his planet, they all just worked for the common good, and these dupes here fought over who could destroy theirs best,
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could touch me and I’d combust. And that’s not what that means, firearms are weapons of anger. But I think if you shot me, all I’d feel would be love. Love, love, bleeding red, and I’m staring up at your face like you’ve freed me from something.
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could hold me and I could fall asleep, for a night, for forever.
shoots to kill
but aims at the places which will hurt the most.
we are constantly dying
but pain is a signal that only occasionally fires.
the bullets tear fresh flickers across your retinas.
and you roar at the injustice of it all.
a weapon of destruction, a symbol of fear, a pocket book of what could be and could be removed, a wipeout zone created form your own thoughts and what is percieved to be the worst of all yet a defense of what is the worst person of all . it is subjunctive .
He was forged in the fires of love and desire, you could see it in his eyes. Those arms hot as hellfire wrapped around my torso, laying me down gently. Blood pulsed from my gaping wound, the bullet squirming it’s way through my insides and he watched me, hovering like a predator who had just made the kill. It was his.
The gun in his hands trembled almost as as badly as his heart was fluttering in his chest. Jamie looked towards the man lying dead over the kitchen counter, the body slowly being pulled down to the floor by gravity. It hit linoleum with a soft thud, blood beginning to pool where the bullet entered his body. It trickled over to Jamie’s shoes, sticky and warm even through the leather. The girl in the corner released a screech that she did not know she was holding as the gun fell from his hands. He was a murderer.
I’m a firearm’s enthusiast. He declared proudly. She wasn’t quite sure what to think. It was the subject of hot debate in the country, and maybe that’s why she was compelled towards him. It gave him a sort of bad boy status.
The firearm rested heavy in my arm. Move ahead! They’re approaching! I heard a cry from the front. Then I heard the yelling, the gunshots. I stormed ahead.
Firearms are dangerous. If you don’t know how to use them, then stay away from them, because you can kill other people and yourself. Don’t use firearms unless you know how to use them
Hold your firearms
I never thought of Dad’s guns as “firearms.” They were just his hunting rifles, the old shogun that had belonged to my grandfather, the .22 that he used to shoot the woodchucks that raided the garden. I know they were firearms, of course, but they were just a part of the house, like the coffee grinder and the washing machine. Just tools.
It was a peculiar sort of firearm, all strange overlapping bits and a barrel that was covered in what looked like fish scales. I couldn’t even find the trigger at first; I located it at last on the top of the barrel, as if whoever fired it would have to do so with their teeth.
aim. take a deep breath. see it, you have to put it in the cross hairs. you are the most powerful man in the world, at least according to the poor bastard you are aiming at, even though he doesn’t know it. kinda freaky ain’t it?
He was just an ordinary policeman and that’s how he wanted it to stay. The bobby on the beat who knows everyone in the village not the policeman in a flak jacket and carrying a firearm.
His firearm dropped from his hand with a resounding clatter. The noise seemed to bounce off the close-set walls, nearly screaming out his decision for pacifism for all to hear.
I shot the sherrif and he turn around and said what the hell are you doing young lady, you are supposed to wear high heels not shoot around like a soldier, but anyway, good shot, where did you learn that?
it was dark in the room – the smell of wood smoke and rosemary hung heavy around her. Quietly she looked up from the edge of the bed, a sad smile on her face. “Will it hurt she asked” a tear rolling down her soft cheek. “No” he whispered, “well maybe a little.” He reached toward her face hand outstretch to catch the drop. “It’s going to be okay baby”, he said shrugging a little and dropping his hand to his side. She glanced at the table where the firearm lay and realized that nothing in this world would make her pick it up. He paced to the window and glanced out at the moonless night. “It’s darker than Satan’s bowels out there” he said with a low laugh.
Slowly she stood from the bed and stood behind placing her head against his strong back. “we’ll just run” she said tears pouring from her golden eyes now. “we’ll leave it all and never come back.” he turned pulling her against his chest and running his hands through her hair. “The thing about running” he said his lips against her head “is that once you start you can never stop and you can never turn back.”
The handy ability of a weapon without duality of purpose. Knives can help and danger yet all firearms ever do is destroy.
His arm was on fire. Her touch was soft and feverish, delicate but endlessly supple.
When she sat down on his bosom, his other parts started warming up too.
Then he remembered, and found that the gun he had been holding was no longer in his hand, but in hers. In their few seconds of contact, her hand had left a trail of cooling sweat droplets on his arm. Now her hand held the gun, against the side of his head.
They thought they needed more of firearms, canons, warheads and people to give their lives for the cause. The little transparent purple creature looked down from his pancake-bus, and couldn’t understand. In his planet, they all just worked for the common good, and these dupes here fought over who could destroy theirs best,
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could touch me and I’d combust. And that’s not what that means, firearms are weapons of anger. But I think if you shot me, all I’d feel would be love. Love, love, bleeding red, and I’m staring up at your face like you’ve freed me from something.
Firearm. Arms made of fire. You could hold me and I could fall asleep, for a night, for forever.
shoots to kill
but aims at the places which will hurt the most.
we are constantly dying
but pain is a signal that only occasionally fires.
the bullets tear fresh flickers across your retinas.
and you roar at the injustice of it all.
a weapon of destruction, a symbol of fear, a pocket book of what could be and could be removed, a wipeout zone created form your own thoughts and what is percieved to be the worst of all yet a defense of what is the worst person of all . it is subjunctive .