2024

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.

Hot sun laid heavily on Winchester's bare forearms, his gloves momentarily aside and his skin not quite all being shaded by the brim of his hat.

The warm stone he sat on kept him grounded, the steady flow of water in the nearby river a constant and comforting white noise. Birds in the sky above flocked and flitted restlessly.

He should be on his way back to town, by now. He had only come out this far from town to collect water from the river, if he didn't return soon, people would become worried and suspicious.

He couldn't raise himself, though, too focused in his only semblance of time to himself. Leaving a trail of clumsy black ink in its wake, his pen moved rapidly across a scrap of yellow paper, one which had once been a flier advertising something-or-other goods. Words danced across the canvas:

My brother bought me a pistol / And held his hand over mine / An action familial in nature, an act for no one's brother. / He--

He stopped the flow of his script, looking up from his pen in order to decide what the next word should be, and meeting the unexpected gaze of his brother-- true and in the flesh-- staring down back at him.

“Young Winnie's a writer!”

Joseph said in teasing glee, and the poet startled, scrambling aimlessly to hide his sheath of papers. He had tried so hard to keep this hobby a secret—it was useless and unbecoming of a man! A man fit and raised to protect, not to be a writer. But, he had become too confident, and now he would pay.

Surely Joseph would scold him, and Winchester prepared himself for a barrage of angered words, his older brother snatched a paper out from between his bare fingers.

There was a moment of agonizing anticipation, Winchester hardly baring to open his eyes and read the expression on Joseph's face, trying to calm himself by focusing on the light jingle of the spurs on his boots as they clinked against a stone.

Joseph read. Winchester knew which one. A short piece, outlining a hacking emotion of abandonment and isolation after their parents had gone—surely, he would be reprimanded for dwelling on such things, surely, he shouldn't allow himself to be devoured by these weakening feelings--

“This is incredible,”

Joseph said it with a tone of wonderment, as if discovering the other side of a river for the very first time, as if being greeted with a herd of ripe cattle, untapped and undiscovered.

“You must submit this to the library, you truly have a gift, Winnie,”

Winchester glanced up from his stupor, taken aback.

“Thank you...” He smiled weakly, feeling relieved.

Joseph gestured for him to stand, and he complied, pulling his gloves back on as he did.

I want to live passionately, I want to affect the lives of others while I'm here. I want to hope for a better future, it gives me something to hurt for. I want to look into the eyes of a God and tell it how much it's done, and I want it to not give a shit about me. I need to hold onto something, in the way a lover holds onto their money, in a way that a bird holds onto a clump of wire-- I need to see hints that the sky is changing, and be surprised at how quickly it does. I want this city to forget me when I'm buried under the foundations of new houses. I want the memories of my actions to slowly end, because before I'm dead, I'll never die.

You're moving out, and I'm staying put, and the promise of forever means nothing. The voices of young ones are being stifled by a damp cotton cloth, softly pressing down on my lips.

I will watch the library be torn down, and the old factories stand tall like grocery stores that no one knows what to do with anymore-- that no one has a need for anymore. And I'll live in the same city as my town, and I'll live right next door to my childhood home. And I'll cry because I can't break anything correctly; Can anyone even listen anymore? Does it matter?

When the sinkhole opens up in the middle of the night-- the world is changed-- and no one even heard when it happened.

He carves her willfully
And so she is hurt
And she crawls out with her skin on fire

When she finds her way
Into the arms of another
She combusts
And she loses her strength
To do much at all

"Please hold me,"
She warns,
The flowers of her lover being torn apart by flame,
'She's a star, you know'
Her thoughts offer
'Sylvia's a star'

She knows the bugs
She knows the chisel
She feels them crawling in her cracks

"I'm lying! I'm lying!"
She calls to the sun
And her star answers her,
She won't leave,
She loves you.

“Pull yourself up”
They said
And they laughed because they had the strength
Or they pretend they might have
To inspire
Or to preach
Or to shove you away--
And families they give their money
To young-face boy billionaires
To men with receding hairlines
Who don't have a cure for cancer
Who build rocketships to space
For only themselves

And of course we're mad!
Of course i'm slamming words
Into a free website
For free thinkers
And i hope i go somewhere

We're living in basements
And some on the streets
And artists are dying like Vincent
And artists are preaching in videos
About how they learned to work for a company
That gets bought up and shut down

We're individuals!
We're people!
We need to save ourselves!
Who can fix us but the power we hold within us?
Therapists don't help
Parroting back our own insecurities
Hoping we work them out
The demand is too high
Replace it with an app!
And dehumanize consumers
Until they're dying on live tv

I thought this poem would make me famous
Maybe it would pay for college
Maybe it would make me rich
So I can sit on Mars and laugh

I heard a poem in class
About billboards and owing money
It struck me that we're all living
Under the same roof
All writing words in anger
About money and power
And at eleven years old
I thought i could do more for the environment
Than the people spilling oil rigs into oceans

If you want people to stop hating you,
Then you should make yourself more like them
You should stack ladders on themselves
And duct-tape them together
And reach the moon that way
And tell all your friends that you're leaving your old life behind
And that you're going to university

I want to believe in a future
Where people aren't afraid of the homeless
Where i don't force myself to look away because i can't bring myself to give
Where the victims of our system aren't left behind by their friends who're escaping
And I don't want to stop the car
To give the people who live in poverty
My leftover lunch

And the computers
And email scams
And the blog posts
Top Ten ways to get rich slightly-quicker-than-normal
what-is-normal-?
Here, you-should-break-too-many-laws
Its-the-only-way-out
repeated-offense-
get-thrown-in-a-prison-full-of-people-who-want-you-dead
And-bow-to-a-judge-that-hates-you
And-a-jury-who-wants-to-get-back-to-work
To-get-their-paycheck
to-bow-to-a-boss-that-wants-them-dead

Oh look how much better we are!
We don't burn witches at the steak like those unimportant-third-in-line-lost-to-the-causes-places!
We broadcast them on national tv so that people know their names and faces
And can find them on a free website for free-thinkers
And throw bricks through their windows
Because they're trying to make a difference
And we laugh because we learned about being a businessman from blogs

Our lives are not connected
Its us against them
Pay respects for a queen but not for the good-hearted volunteer who was shot-dead by a man who protects our country
Pay respects for our still-living ex-president
Who broadcasted my name on national tv
And not for me
And no respect for me
Because i'm not rich
Because i didn't know how to be smart
Because i am stuck
We're all stuck

Pull yourself together
And get out of your well
And listen to no one
And work your nine to five
And work your six to eight
And work your twelve to twelve
And have children for us

Eat the money if you have to,
Eat your friends if you have to,
Eat yourself if you have to,
Your boots were made for running.