Target shooting gone bad. |
One day when I was just a little lad, Dad took us out to shoot a 45. My older brother and I felt alive; (as desperado outlaws, we were bad.) Within a field beyond a little lake, the August sun dried out the willow grass. To shoot that pistol seemed too good to pass; we soon would be aware of our mistake. A 45 delivers blast and kick, but in addition bullets traced with flair. That is to say they flared within the air when bullets hit a can or stone or stick. We shot our targets and we watched the flares; they arced beyond a gently sloping hill. The three of us as marksmen basked in thrill; (sometimes you strain your luck and then it tears.) Then horseback riders came within our view, and they approached with an intensive pace. My father wore a shocked look on his face; they gave us news--our consternation grew. They said the field beyond began to blaze; (in fact they wondered if we were aware.) An outdoor shooting turned into a scare; this fire news left us within a daze. We hastened up the hill to see the storm; the field ablaze like Hades had a cause. The thought of tracer bullets gave us pause-- this outing quickly went beyond the norm. My brother and I took our shirts off fast; we beat the flames as if we were insane. A sense of panic mitigated pain; we acted as a conflagration cast. Somebody notified authorities, and soon the firefighters came along. Without acknowledging a bit of wrong, two siblings fought field flames up to their knees. In time the blaze was stopped for nature’s sake; the three of us all slumped within the car. But father didn’t have to drive too far; he stopped and tossed the gun into the lake. 40 Lines [Rhythm: 10] Writer’s Cramp May 8, 2014 |