The Range

range

  The range was quiet today. Abandoned headphones hung in the vacant cubicles. A single, empty clip stood upright in the far corner, left by a careless colleague. The place sporadically flickered to life square by square as Faith hit the lights and approached the console in the corner with little reverie. I, at least, was taken aback by the place. Faith had managed to get me in for some shooting practice, had charmed me past her friend on the desk – officer Lafferty, was it? It was strange, seeing her here, among her co-workers that knew nothing of her second life – a life that was, to her, very much her first.

  The glock I’d brought in felt heavy in my hand. I’d fired it off plenty since Faith gave it to me, but this, she promised, would be different. Moving targets and advancing bullseyes and even a pop-up hazard course. The rig was a set-up worth envying, our clichéd tin cans and skeet range out back paling in comparison. I approached a cubicle and placed my weapon down on the cool surface before reaching into my pack and placing two boxes of ammo next to it. I looked over impatiently at a very relaxed Faith who was tapping commands of some sort or another into the computer. I was eager to start blasting holes in targets. To prove I was ready to start blasting holes into marks. I was ready to stop feeling so impotent, and like so many men before me, a gun seemed a logical way to tell people.

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~ by Joseph Blame on February 6, 2011.

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