Winchester 1873
Written November 2022Notes: Short story for my Creative Writing class. Features the same characters as my flash fiction story 'My Brother Bought Me a Pistol'
The pistol wasn’t for killing men.
A handgun would better serve that purpose, but Winchester didn’t plan to get into any deadly scuffles, being as quiet as he was. The pistol was for close-range animal attacks, wild dogs, or snakes. He would only carry it when traveling, the thing bulky and largely unneeded in town.
But, he was nineteen, and a pistol seemed like a simple rite of passage. A gift of independence.
Winchester turned the gun over in his hands, caressing the dark metal with his thumb. The object didn’t quite feel real, too large in his grasp, like he was four years old all again.
His brother waited expectantly a few paces away, a smile in his eyes, do you like it?
Winchester looked up at him and forced a delighted expression.
“This is nice, Joseph, thank you.”
“Of course!” Joseph smiled back, more proud of himself than anything else.
The house was bright with morning sun, Winchester sitting awkwardly on the cramped, brown leather couch that had been in the living room for years. His brother leaned against the wall by the door. The room was small, but overwhelmingly familiar, a house that carried emotions, forgotten among the cracks in the floorboards.
Joseph gestured for his younger brother to stand, “C’mon, I'll teach you how to shoot,” and led him out of the house. Winchester followed close at his heels.
They walked, and their town was the same as ever. It was dying. Winchester could feel that well enough, the buildings worn and threatening their inhabitants with collapse. More people left each year, the only ones who stayed were the ones who were stuck, for one reason or another. Joseph waved to their disgruntled and tired neighbors. Winchester kept his head down. He never felt very welcome in this drained town, and though he had lived with many of these people for his whole life, Joseph was still the only one he knew.
They didn’t walk far. There was a small clearing by the dried-up well not far from their house. It was a good bit out from the main buildings, far from the school, with hay targets set up in a line against a wall.
Joseph gestured for Winchester to hand him the pistol, and he did so, palming the thing over to his brother and stepping back a few paces. Giving away the weight of it was a relief.
Joseph loaded the gun easily and propped his foot back behind him. He held his arms out straight, one shoulder shrugged up, and fired. Winchester flinched at the loud popping sound, chips of wood and hay flinging off the target and into the dust below. His brother laughed at his bewildered expression, walking over to pat him gently on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, Winnie, you'll learn in time!"
Winchester shivered, but nodded, and let Joseph guide him into a stance more fit to shoot. He pressed the pistol against his palm as he held his arms out, standing behind him.
It was viscerally wrong. Winchester could feel it acutely. Joseph was his brother, but he was forced to be his father, and the role had never sunk in. Winchester swallowed back his worry. Joseph had taught him many things over the years-- there was no one else to do so-- and this should be no different.
"Like this?" Winchester asked in a hesitant tone, and his brother nodded.
"Tilt your wrist down a bit-- there you go. Stop shaking so much. Steady yourself, Winnie."
Sunlight shone down harshly through a cloudless sky; Winchester could distinctly feel the sensation. His gloves rubbing against skin, his boots digging into the dirt.
Joseph slowly backed away. "You're good! Shoot whenever you're ready, and remember the recoil!"
Winchester tried hard to steady his breathing-- and pulled the trigger.
He felt the force of the shot shove his body back, and he stumbled with the strength of it. Just as before, there was a loud POP, and Winchester couldn't stop himself from flinching again. His hands shook violently as he lowered the pistol, another hole in the target across the way.
Joseph clapped an encouraging hand on his back, and he recoiled slightly, head spinning.
"Fantastic! You’re getting the hang of it!"
Winchester smiled weakly and forced himself to stand up straighter.
"It was loud," He admitted, handing the gun back over to his brother to be unloaded.
-
Winchester had assumed they would return home after that. They each had chores to do for the day, after all-- but Joseph had other plans.
When they arrived back in town, Winchester was led over to the small stables where Joseph kept his horse. He patted the animal on the side of its nose, and she huffed at him. The horse was old, named Dusty, and had first belonged to their father many years ago. Now, Joseph took care of her. He had led her out of the stable by the reins, and patted her down, getting her ready for travel.
When he hopped up onto her and gestured for Winchester to follow suit, he blinked back at Joseph quizzically.
"A nineteen-year-old needs to learn how to hunt sometime," Joseph explained, and Winchester felt his stomach drop. "We'll pack it in with the firing lesson. Now, grab my rifle for me, will you?"
The two made their way out once more, now to a large and open clearing, a good ways further from town than the last time. Winchester couldn't stop himself from beginning to worry.
It was, of course, his time. He was growing into a young man, and he would need to abandon his less useful habits eventually, in favor of learning all of the skills that a man would actually need in the real world.
It didn't stop the dread, though. Suffice to say-- Winchester was scared of this change. He'd lived a quaint and quiet life thus far (for the most part, anyway), and wasn't keen on parting with his more reclusive tendencies. He wanted so badly to be a good brother, a good man, an upstanding protector like Joseph was-- but, he couldn't shake the feeling that it all simply wasn't for him.
They arrived in the large plain, tufts of yellow grass growing out of the ground, reaching for the sunlight above. A large cluster of pheasants dotted the landscape, having emerged from their nests to eat bugs and bask in the morning dew.
Winchester shivered against the heat, feeling clammy. He'd seen these birds dead many times before, carcasses picked of their feathers and skinned to be cooked. It didn't change how he felt, the act of taking even a small life feeling completely unbearable.
Joseph patted his arm, and loaded the rifle, handing it over to his bewildered brother.
"Your pistol won't do well with these, sadly. It's fine for close-range skirmishes, but you're not going to get far trying to hunt a bird that way. Besides, you've shot a rifle before, right? A few years ago? One of the times when you weren't helping Mom in the kitchen?"
Winchester nodded an affirmation. He had, he remembered. It wasn't too long ago. He was probably only fifteen.
By Joseph’s instruction, Winchester attempted to calm his nerves and readied to fire. He still shook against the weight of the weapon and his own dread. He gazed down the barrel at a fairly-sized pheasant, intently plucking at its feathers.
“Remember, steady yourself, Winnie,” Joseph reminded him. He hovered over Winchester’s shoulder, his arm extended in a steady point toward the bird. “It’s just like that target since it’s not moving,” he added, and slowly began to back away. “Don’t forget the recoil either. It’ll be more than your pistol’s.”
Winchester sent a quick glance toward Joseph in acknowledgement. This felt much worse, deeply upsetting in a way that was much beyond the hay target from before. To keep from shaking too much, he took a breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He prepared himself again for the awful noise, swallowing his emotions down thickly.
POP!
Winchester was sent staggering backwards, barely catching himself against the force. A ringing fuzziness overtook him for a moment, senses completely overwhelmed. They slowly cleared, in time to hear Joseph’s congratulations.
“You’re a natural! Great gob!” He stepped up to carefully lower the point of the rifle.
In the field, grass spattered with blood, lay the unmoving corpse of the shot pheasant. The birds surrounding had taken to panicked fluttering, cawing out to their friends as they retreated to safety. But, abandoned by the carcass, were the tiny bodies of chicks. They nuzzled their dead mother’s feathers, chirping, crying out for help.
From Winchester’s hands, the rifle thunked onto the ground. He dipped, panicked, to grab it again, only for him to never rise to his feet.
His world began to swim. Everything about this was wrong. He gazed across the way, and clutched the gun tight, watching the pheasant chicks dancing in panic. He felt sick. By his hand, the children were doomed to death along with their mother. They were fully abandoned, afraid.
“You okay?” Joseph asked, dropping onto one knee next to Winchester, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Winnie, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t respond. Too guilty, too afraid. He was caught in a mental tug-of-war, completely unsure if he should apologize to the bird or to his brother. Either way would be inadequate. He tossed the rifle away from himself limply, and curled up against the dirt, sobbing.
-
The morning had become afternoon. Winchester was still stuck in those horrid moments, mind still obsessing over the lives of those chicks, though now he had turned away from them. He and Joseph still sat in that clearing, now empty of most of the pheasants that had populated the area not long before. The sun was high in the cloudless blue, looking down on Winchester with contempt.
His breathing had steadied out, Joseph’s hand a steady presence on his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall.
“Do you mind… Telling me what happened?” Joseph finally requested after a long silence. When his brother simply recoiled into himself , Joseph added, “You don’t have to. We can just go home.”
“I don’t like guns.” Winchester murmured, wringing his hands at his sides.
“What?”
“Weapons-- Anything. I can’t do it.”
Joseph shook his head. “You aren’t expected to kill people, Winnie.”
“Anything! People and animals. It doesn’t feel right.”
Joseph grimaced, as if he had already known.
“Can I ask why?”
Winchester sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “I don’t know.” He paused. He did know. “Maybe… It’s because I understand what it’s like. After Mom and Dad– I know what it’s like to lose someone. Everything’s connected, Joseph, I see it all the time. The bugs eat the grass, and the pheasants eat the bugs, and the coyotes eat the pheasants. Lives are lost and they’re missed by everyone. I don’t wanna contribute to it. I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t bring himself to look up, and his heart sank as he felt Joseph’s hand retract. It returned, though, now settling on his back, as Winchester was pulled into a hug.
“Don’t apologize. Please, Winnie. I can tell how hurt you were, I’m sorry I can’t make you feel better about it! You don’t have to hunt. You could settle down farming or barter for cans of beans– I don’t know.” Joseph drew away, sorrow held in his gaze. ”...Thank you for telling me.”
Winchester glanced up at his brother, he felt like crying all over again. He tried to say something, but he choked on the words.
The world suddenly seemed clearer, and Winchester felt that maybe he wasn’t so alone.