I'm a roll now- here's a piece I wrote on guns. I'm trying to talk my editor into letting me post it in the school newspaper, but chances are slim to none. *ahem* if anyone wants to post this on their pro-gun web-site or something- feel free :-D
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Gun. The word alone is perhaps one of the most controversial words of the 20th century. The word is often associated with death and yet- to many, it is a word that is associated with protection. My first exposure to guns came with one of mankind's greatest inventions- the TV. As a kid, I watched in awe as John Wayne handed his Single Action Army Revolver ike a pro. Of course, back then- the Colt Single Action Army was just known as the "gun". As a matter of fact, most of my friends refuse to watch action movies with me now, because I will blurt out explicit words whenever the "Action hero" fails to observe a basic gun safety rule. But there was indeed a time when guns were merely a distant interest. What got me hooked on guns- was a simple little thing called a videogame console.
Videogames are what devirginized me to the "evils" of shooting guns. I laughed like a maniac as I pumped evil monsters full of pixelated lead. One thing lead to another, and before I know it, I was at a gun store, with my father who purchased a Walther PPK/S .380 produced at Interarms. I remember trembling slightly as he allowed me to handle the gun (yes, it was empty and safe). I remember the jolt that went through my spine as I pulled the trigger and heard the hammer snapping into place. Slowly, I began to familiarize myself with the pistol and I even learned how to disassemble the gun for cleaning. Under the watchful eye of my father, I began to grow more confident with the gun.
And before I knew it, I was at the gun range for the first time of my life. I can still recall with crystal clear clarity the sound of the muffled explosion as I pulled the trigger. I remember the jolt that went through my spine as the small silver gun pushed up against my palm for a brief second. I remember the relief I felt as the slide slammed back to jack a new round into the chamber as an empty brass shell flung out the side. However, most importantly, I remember the paper target slowly coming into focus as smoke slowly rose out of the barrel and disappeared into the air in the foreground.
The hole was about ten inches below the area I was aiming for. What had gone wrong? I had lined up the sights just like my father had taught me! The red bar in the middle had perfectly lined up with the U. That was when I was realized I was shaking like a crack addict going through withdrawl. I soon calmed myself down enough to fire another round. Once again, the deafening boom, the jolt of my arms straining to control the recoil (which was virtually all based in my mind- Most of shooters will laugh, but this gun was just a .380). I loved the feeling of pulling the trigger and feeling the trigger pressure disintegrate, just milliseconds before the huge blast would press the gun against my hand. I loved loading the bullets into the magazine one by one. I loved watching the smoke rise from the exposed barrel after the slide had locked back. I loved loading in a fresh magazine and hearing the distinct click as the slide rammed forward. But most of all, I loved the feeling of handling the tremdous amount of responsibilty which comes with a firearm.
In my hands, was a weapon capable of disable someone for life. In my hands, was a deadly tool, capable of obliterating my hearing with one swift trigger pull. In my hands, was a weapon which could be used to save someone's life. In my hands, was a gun. However, I did not see the gun as an object of destruction- nor did I believe that the gun was "killing" the poor defenseless paper target. I saw the gun as a useful medium I could use to get my mind off of things. While holding a loaded gun, I had no room to think about the stress of school work. While holding a loaded gun, the only things on my mind were safety, and accuracy. Every ounce of my breathe was carefully measured and controlled. Every square inch of my brain was focused on steading the muscles. My head was trying the best to control the nervousness. When holding a loaded gun, I was virtually free from all the petty little troubles of my daily routine.
Every little action performed at the gun range took careful deliberation. As my father had warned me, one careless mistake, and I could find myself in deep deep trouble. The point was emphasized by a number of things, including the mean looking gun range owner who had a Glock pistol neatly tucked inside a leather holster. The four safety rules had been embedded in my brain, right next to the Pledge of Alligience and the lyrics to my favorite song. As I got into my second box of bullets, I was shooting with much confidence- yet, I was careful not to cause any trouble. Knowing that each pull of the trigger was sending a chunk of lead down the gun range lane at about 900 feet per second, I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility, yet- the fact that my father had entrusted me with the responsibily was comforting, and I wasn't about to let him down by doing something stupid.
Without saying, my shots from far from accurate. I was too concerned with not doing anything unsafe and I was too worried about having the correct stance. As a matter of fact, a few shots even failed to hit the paper target. However, that was of little importance to me. I left the gun range with a paper target (nicely decorated with a shot gun group), a beet red palm, and a smile the size of Texas. Most importantly, I left the range knowing that a new level of trust had developed between me and my father. He had trusted me enough to allow me to handle a GUN.
After an endless number of trips to the gun range with my father, the word gun is no long foreign to me. After some time of careful deliberation, I can safely say, that to me, the word gun- will forever be associated with the gift of awesome responsibility from a father to the son.
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Any comments on this would be greatly appericiated
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Gun. The word alone is perhaps one of the most controversial words of the 20th century. The word is often associated with death and yet- to many, it is a word that is associated with protection. My first exposure to guns came with one of mankind's greatest inventions- the TV. As a kid, I watched in awe as John Wayne handed his Single Action Army Revolver ike a pro. Of course, back then- the Colt Single Action Army was just known as the "gun". As a matter of fact, most of my friends refuse to watch action movies with me now, because I will blurt out explicit words whenever the "Action hero" fails to observe a basic gun safety rule. But there was indeed a time when guns were merely a distant interest. What got me hooked on guns- was a simple little thing called a videogame console.
Videogames are what devirginized me to the "evils" of shooting guns. I laughed like a maniac as I pumped evil monsters full of pixelated lead. One thing lead to another, and before I know it, I was at a gun store, with my father who purchased a Walther PPK/S .380 produced at Interarms. I remember trembling slightly as he allowed me to handle the gun (yes, it was empty and safe). I remember the jolt that went through my spine as I pulled the trigger and heard the hammer snapping into place. Slowly, I began to familiarize myself with the pistol and I even learned how to disassemble the gun for cleaning. Under the watchful eye of my father, I began to grow more confident with the gun.
And before I knew it, I was at the gun range for the first time of my life. I can still recall with crystal clear clarity the sound of the muffled explosion as I pulled the trigger. I remember the jolt that went through my spine as the small silver gun pushed up against my palm for a brief second. I remember the relief I felt as the slide slammed back to jack a new round into the chamber as an empty brass shell flung out the side. However, most importantly, I remember the paper target slowly coming into focus as smoke slowly rose out of the barrel and disappeared into the air in the foreground.
The hole was about ten inches below the area I was aiming for. What had gone wrong? I had lined up the sights just like my father had taught me! The red bar in the middle had perfectly lined up with the U. That was when I was realized I was shaking like a crack addict going through withdrawl. I soon calmed myself down enough to fire another round. Once again, the deafening boom, the jolt of my arms straining to control the recoil (which was virtually all based in my mind- Most of shooters will laugh, but this gun was just a .380). I loved the feeling of pulling the trigger and feeling the trigger pressure disintegrate, just milliseconds before the huge blast would press the gun against my hand. I loved loading the bullets into the magazine one by one. I loved watching the smoke rise from the exposed barrel after the slide had locked back. I loved loading in a fresh magazine and hearing the distinct click as the slide rammed forward. But most of all, I loved the feeling of handling the tremdous amount of responsibilty which comes with a firearm.
In my hands, was a weapon capable of disable someone for life. In my hands, was a deadly tool, capable of obliterating my hearing with one swift trigger pull. In my hands, was a weapon which could be used to save someone's life. In my hands, was a gun. However, I did not see the gun as an object of destruction- nor did I believe that the gun was "killing" the poor defenseless paper target. I saw the gun as a useful medium I could use to get my mind off of things. While holding a loaded gun, I had no room to think about the stress of school work. While holding a loaded gun, the only things on my mind were safety, and accuracy. Every ounce of my breathe was carefully measured and controlled. Every square inch of my brain was focused on steading the muscles. My head was trying the best to control the nervousness. When holding a loaded gun, I was virtually free from all the petty little troubles of my daily routine.
Every little action performed at the gun range took careful deliberation. As my father had warned me, one careless mistake, and I could find myself in deep deep trouble. The point was emphasized by a number of things, including the mean looking gun range owner who had a Glock pistol neatly tucked inside a leather holster. The four safety rules had been embedded in my brain, right next to the Pledge of Alligience and the lyrics to my favorite song. As I got into my second box of bullets, I was shooting with much confidence- yet, I was careful not to cause any trouble. Knowing that each pull of the trigger was sending a chunk of lead down the gun range lane at about 900 feet per second, I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility, yet- the fact that my father had entrusted me with the responsibily was comforting, and I wasn't about to let him down by doing something stupid.
Without saying, my shots from far from accurate. I was too concerned with not doing anything unsafe and I was too worried about having the correct stance. As a matter of fact, a few shots even failed to hit the paper target. However, that was of little importance to me. I left the gun range with a paper target (nicely decorated with a shot gun group), a beet red palm, and a smile the size of Texas. Most importantly, I left the range knowing that a new level of trust had developed between me and my father. He had trusted me enough to allow me to handle a GUN.
After an endless number of trips to the gun range with my father, the word gun is no long foreign to me. After some time of careful deliberation, I can safely say, that to me, the word gun- will forever be associated with the gift of awesome responsibility from a father to the son.
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Any comments on this would be greatly appericiated
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