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| by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Wednesday, November 16, 2005, 7:44:00 PM | permalink |
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Monday morning I sat staring down at the authority end of the barrel. Pulling the charging handle cocks the weapon, storing potential energy in the coiled spring. With a single right index finger placed in the huge ring that is the trigger guard. That brief moment of silence just before the squeeze off, its as if the rifle held her breath in ruffled anticipation. A single motion on the trigger releases a catch inside that held the burdened spring back. A single fluid press right through, don't snap click, apply with finesse, releases the pent-up excitement of the spring's to allow a firing pin within the rifle to act like a forceful hammer, hitting the single waiting ammo round in the chamber in the right spot. The gunpowder within is immediately compressed, the contents instanteously transformed into a firework explosion of heat, sound and smoke. The business part of the round darts down the long road of the barrel hurried along by a gush of air right behind and a spray of dust thrown up by the round's impact 300 metres down is the only beautiful consequence observed. Such an instrument of potential and destruction, and I held the rifle below my head, the barrel gently against my chin as I mused. None of the thousand and one thoughts in my head at that moment were related to the day's task at the Mandai Range, 800 metres on a dirt track off the 1.5 kilometres main road that led to the zoo. As our transport went past the zoo's signs enroute to the range, I broke off in a moment of distraction from the morning's daydreaming and wonder if the "moving targets" today consisted of various species of exotic fauna hailing from different parts of the world frolicking from left to right.. bang. I felt detached from where I sat, from the every other person that were in the waiting area idling till their turn to shoot at the range, from the angry cracking sounds of gunfire echoing like some manic torturer raining down blows with his whip, from the indifferent officer that stood just behind the firers, sipping on his straw enjoying his chilled Pepsi, Colonel Sanders' idiotic grin printed on the paper cup regular size, from the humid heat of the ever present sun and the irritating lalang grass seeds that cling stubbornly onto the trousers with their hooks, from the only one that tried her best and gave up. A millions things going on all around and all I cared about were the ones that went on in my head. Yessiree, am experiencing full on melancholia. I stared at the rifle pointed at my chin. I hear my name called out. I get up to collect my rounds and have my go at it. Please come home safe. |
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recent entries (in order) |
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<--latest post-- a little past his bedtime maybe--sometimes i regret introducing boon to rock music--please don't kill me--songs to get misty-eyed to--"why you so ___ing heavy?"--visit to the rock gym, in pictures--not a feel good experience--leanna's birthday bbq last week--these days.--"what do you mean by the OTHER museum?"-- --last post--> |
