Have you ever had one of those “whew, close call!” moments in which you (very) narrowly escaped something dangerous or even just mildly alarming? We want to hear about it!
When my son came into the world, so did a flood of intrusive thoughts. I’d be rocking him in my arms and imagine dropping him onto the hardwood floor. Through the baby monitor I’d watch him sleep, the most serene expression on his face, and play out a scenario where he wouldn’t wake up. I’d be walking down the stairs, taking utmost care with every step to counteract my lifelong natural clumsiness, and still be paralyzed with the fear that I would trip and fall on top of him, breaking all his bones. Perhaps this was postpartum anxiety, or perhaps this was a normal welcome to motherhood, but I had no perspective. Nobody tells you how to transition from growing a magical creature inside of your body to then have to protect said precious being from the big bad world, especially when the big bad world includes you and your inherent imperfections.
Maternity leave was the longest stretch I’d gone without working since I was a teenager, and my brain didn’t know what to do but to fold in on itself. I walked miles and miles around the neighborhood with my fragile newborn strapped to my chest. One day, rather than looking at my surroundings or my feet, my focus was rolled inward as I tried to outrun my thoughts. An uneven patch of sidewalk caught my toe and I tripped, lurching forward. Instinctively, I put my hand on my baby’s head, as if I could protect him from the entire weight of my body about to crush his malleable skull into the sidewalk. I saw the rest of my ruined life flash before my eyes, a life in which I could never escape the guilt and devastation that my clumsiness had killed my son. My torso reached a 45 degree angle with the sidewalk before I righted myself, breathless, my newborn still sleeping soundly against my chest. For now, I was still living in the universe where I was my son’s safe person rather than his destroyer.
As told by the kid with freckles, big ears, and a whole lot of questions
I was six and three-quarters, which is almost seven, which is practically grown up—at least that’s what I told myself when they left me with my uncles for the weekend. My uncles were wild and loud and funny, and they always smelled like smoke and something sharp and sour—like beer, motor oil and mischief.
I didn’t know I had applied for it, but they said I was finally getting initiated as one of the Coppage Boys. They grinned when they said it, like I was about to get a secret badge or learn a handshake only certain people knew. I didn’t know what it meant to be a Coppage Boy, but I knew it was something, and I was excited. Nervous too. Like the time I got to hold a baby chick and thought I might squish it if I squeezed too hard.
My favorite place in the world was Grandma’s house. It was colorful and warm and smelled like flour and smoke and fresh coffee. We played cards together late into the night. We drank percolated coffee with canned cream from matching copper-colored mugs — even mine, although mine had more milk and sugar. I loved spending nights at my grandma’s house, where everyone belonged when not working or drinking hard. I slept on the big lumpy couch that made farting sounds when you moved. You could barely hear them because of too many pillows and handmade quilts. I would watch TV until the star-spangled banner played, and the Chief would buzz on the Black-and-White screen. Black and White TVs make spooky movies more ominous for young boys up late at night alone.
That house only had two bedrooms, but it felt like all my aunts and uncles lived there. Later, I found out they didn’t. They came and went like wind—loud and fast, and then gone.
Grandpa Bill, the quiet Cherokee man, and his brother Uncle Ross who was even more quiet, lived next door, and I thought maybe that’s how you stayed married so long—by having your own house. He didn’t say much, maybe three words my whole life, and that felt like plenty.
Grandma didn’t say much either. Not to her kids. But to me? She told stories, all kinds. She was like a tiny general in an apron who could bake bread with one hand, smoke with the other, and scold the devil himself if he came near her kitchen. She never touched a drop of alcohol, but her kids drank enough to make up for it. She was funny and scary and never let anything fall apart. Not for long, anyway.
The day of the shootout started normal—well, normal for us. The sisters were in the backyard playing with plaster of Paris, making weird statues of ladies and horses and maybe angels. It was messy and loud, and they argued a lot. They always did, but I think that was how they showed they liked each other.
The uncles started drinking early. Before cartoons were over. They arm-wrestled, slapped each other for fun, and fixed cars that never really got fixed. They wore white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, cigarettes pack rolled up in one arm, and sometimes a knife on their belt. I thought they looked like soldiers or movie stars, or both.
After enough beers, one of them shouted, “Let’s go shoot rabbits!” like it was the best idea ever. I wasn’t sure how I felt about shooting a rabbit. I asked for a bunny for a pet one Easter. Instead, I got a — wanted one for a pet one Easter but got a gosling that dad thought was a duck. Grandma had to keep it at her house, and it got eaten when it was big enough to bite Grandma on the butt when she hung laundry.
I was the only kid going. My little brother had to stay behind. That made me feel like I had just gotten picked for the moon mission.
We all climbed into Clyde’s big green car. I think it was a Buick or something else shaped like a spaceship. The unruly bunch included Uncles Carl, Clyde, Jack, Kenny, and their good friend Duffy, whom I thought of as one of my uncles for a long time - and me.
I sat in the back, wedged between Uncle Kenny and Uncle Jack. The seat smelled like beer and sweat and damp socks, but I didn’t care. I felt like a real man. A very small, very quiet man with wide eyes and a stomach full of butterflies.
The radio played songs with funny names like “Purple People Eater” and “Volare.” The car bounced like a boat every time we hit a bump, and the uncles smoked and laughed and argued about who had the best aim. I tried to laugh too, but the smoke made my eyes water and my throat itch. I didn’t complain. Complaining was not allowed.
When we got to the desert, it was like landing on the moon. Nothing but dust and rocks and sky. No trees. No rabbits yet. Just dirt that stuck to your face and got in your ears. We turned off the road onto a trail that looked like it had been made by someone drunk driving a tank. The car rocked and swayed, and my head kept smacking against Kenny’s arm and the back of the front seat. They thought it was hilarious.
Then the car stopped, and the real show began.
Out came the beers first—foamy and warm from the trunk—and then the guns. Rifles. Handguns. A shotgun, maybe. It was hard to tell. Everyone had something. They started climbing on the hood and the roof like kids playing pirate ship. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just sat there, trying not to blink too much.
We drove with no headlights, slowly crawling along the dirt road like a monster sneaking up on a camp. Someone whispered, “Rabbit!” and BAM—the headlights flashed on, and that poor little animal froze like a statue. Then everybody opened fire. The sound was so loud it knocked the thoughts out of my head. I thought maybe the world had exploded.
I didn’t even see the rabbit after. Just a puff of dust and some arguing over who got the kill shot. I tried to feel proud, but mostly I felt bad for the bunny and a little bit scared of my uncles.
Later, just before the sun came up, we stopped in a canyon and made sandwiches. White bread. Mustard. Bologna. I was starving. Then more shooting. This time at beer cans. I liked that better. The cans didn’t have eyes.
And then the real shooting started.
We heard a shot from far away, and nobody knew where it came from. Another one. Dust kicked up near the car. My heart jumped into my throat. Uncle Clyde had snuck off and was now firing at us from the top of the ridge. Or near us, he said later. But I didn’t know that at the time.
The other uncles shot back. I ducked. I tried to be brave. Kenny grabbed me like a football and ran behind a giant rock. We hid there while bullets zinged and echoed like fireworks. I didn’t know if I should cry or throw up. For a second, I wondered if this was what it meant to be a Coppage Boy—getting shot at by your own blood.
Then someone yelled “TRUCE!” because Clyde hit the car twice – one shot off the radio antenna and another in the radiator. I guess he realized we still needed it to get home.
And just like that, it was over. Nobody was hurt. The ammo was gone. So was the beer.
We drove home with the radiator leaking, smoke curling out of the hood, everyone laughing like it was the best hunting trip ever. I didn’t laugh. I fell asleep when my heart slowed down.
I had a lot of questions. I didn’t ask them. I had a lot of thoughts. I saved them.
But I learned some things that day. Like don’t shoot at your own car. And mustard sandwiches taste better when you’re scared. And if you’re hunting rabbits with uncles, maybe bring a helmet.
Just in case.
And ever since then, every time I hear a gunshot or hear the purple people eater—my stomach tightens, and I remember the sound of beer cans bouncing off rocks and uncles laughing like war heroes.
We had been traveling at 35 miles per hour for 15 hours on ragged, bumpy, narrow roads filled with dust in a rundown, past-retirement SUV trying to get to the entrance of the Serengeti Game Preserve park. We had broken down along the way twice. Our driver spoke no English and was obviously not the person who was supposed to pick us up at the windswept border between Kenya and Tanzania. We prayed the gate would be open even though it was past nightfall.
It was not.
There was no place to go and sleeping in that vehicle with the wild beasts all around us was assuredly a dangerous experiment. Begging and pleading with the gatekeeper was not working, I was close to tears and decided to go for it. Weeping, partly for real and partly for show, on the shoulder of the woman gatekeeper brought is success. She opened the gates with the admonition to drive quickly to avoid any unwanted encounters with the night time prowls of the nocturnal creatures within. Our driver, just as frightened as we were, barrelled through the darkness as we bounced and became airborne on the the many twists and turns that brought us to the shelter of the safari lodge.
One day a few years ago, while negotiating traffic on a four-lane highway, I was heading into the mix aster when I glanced in my rear-view mirror just in time to see someone go from the far right lane across all four lanes and bounce off the median. I wished I could go back and help, but I was in no position with the heavy traffic, it would have been suicide. I could only pray he or she was alright and had had a medical emergency that caused them to lose control.
This is an excerpt from, An Adirondack Story, published in the July issue of the Write Launch. If interested, you can go there, or to my website (mdaltonart.com) and find out if I indeed dodged that bullet back in 1975.
The police separated us into two cop cars. One car contains Stephen and Hugh; my boyfriend Matthew and I ride in a separate car. They didn’t handcuff us, but they certainly looked me up and down with disdain. I’m feeling overwhelmed and lightheaded because just before the police came, Hugh shoved his marijuana on me. He told me to hide it in my underwear because “they won’t search a girl.” I complied but questioned my judgement. And now I’m on my way to the police station feeling like a captured bird.
Matthew glances at me and puts his hand over my arm and squeezes signally it will be okay. I’m not so sure. He doesn’t know about the marijuana, and I can’t tell him now. My mind races as my thoughts drift. How could I have been so naïve? Weed is illegal. People go to prison for possession. And I don’t even smoke pot! I need to get rid of it. Matthew touches my hand in a gesture of tenderness. He recognizes my anguish. I lean my head against his shoulder, swallow hard, and hold back from crying. I think back to the guy that was blocking Hugh’s truck and saying he was making a citizen’s arrest. That was the same guy that hassled Matthew about his long hair in the diner this morning. The same one that sneered at me, likely because I was the only girl with three boys. Mr. CB radio.
I was newly divorced and still figuring out dating at 40. While chatting with a very nice man on Match, we decided to meet up at a local restaurant. His photos were unusually small on the website but I told myself not to be so judgy and be more trusting. When I arrived at the bar I expected to see a guy in his mid-40s with a full head of hair, a trim body, and tall-ish. Looking around the place I guessed I was early because no one fit that description. And then he caught my eye. Oh God, I thought. It can’t be him. He recognized me right away because I looked EXACTLY like my profile picture.
This man was clearly in his sixties. He had a bad toupee which was a bit lopsided. His body was not at all as he described. He had a big belly and a soft, jowly face. And he was short - at least three inches shorter than me which was not what he wrote on his profile. While we nibbled appetizers (which he scarfed down, leaving me two tiny pieces of calamari), he admitted he was currently unemployed, living in his ex-wife’s basement, and would I mind buying dinner and he’d pay me back the next time? When I got up to use the restroom he patted his lap and said, “C’mon, give Daddy a little kiss.” Shortly after that comment I faked a stomach ache and begged off from the rest of the evening. He asked when we could have another date. I said, “Have a nice night,” and sped away in my mini-van, never to see him again.
Drop it here? Not a bullet exactly - an excerpt from a longer piece about not dying
It wasn’t that my parents were neglectful monsters. We had guns, but both my brother and I had taken a gun safety course and had been taught good gun handling techniques by my ex-marine father since we had been able to walk. We did it because we were children and didn’t give a shit. Nothing mattered, everything was doable and firing big fucking guns in the woods is about the best thing a redneck adolescence boy could imagine.
It was late in the fall or early winter, the trees were leafless and it was cold enough to be exhaling vapor but not so much for country boys to be in heavy clothes. We wore sweat shirts and blaze orange vests. My brother had recently grown six inches in as many months so we might have appeared almost like father and son trodding across the farrow fields, nearly frozen for the winter, that surrounded that big wooded swamp.
At some point my brother fired his gun at an old TV or lone bird or whatever we had come across. There was the dry click of the firing pin striking the shell but nothing else. He pulled the gun up and looked puzzled at the stock. The barrall was just level with the side of my face. Having graduated from a gun safety course I knew this was improper gun handling practice.
I pushed the barrel away just before the shell went off. Shot blasted out about a foot in front of my face instead of into the side of my head as it would have a mili -second earlier. The kickback from the unexpected explosion knocked my brother on his ass as he stared at me in shock. It was a rimfire, that is the firing pin struck the shell but the primer hadn’t been perfectly centered or the shell was old or had gotten damp at some point delaying the detonation for just a potentially deadly moment. This is a story not so often told and even today I don’t know if my parents have ever heard it.
Guns and children is never a good combination .. glad you literally “dodged a bullet.” You should win this competition just for the literalness of your story.
When my son came into the world, so did a flood of intrusive thoughts. I’d be rocking him in my arms and imagine dropping him onto the hardwood floor. Through the baby monitor I’d watch him sleep, the most serene expression on his face, and play out a scenario where he wouldn’t wake up. I’d be walking down the stairs, taking utmost care with every step to counteract my lifelong natural clumsiness, and still be paralyzed with the fear that I would trip and fall on top of him, breaking all his bones. Perhaps this was postpartum anxiety, or perhaps this was a normal welcome to motherhood, but I had no perspective. Nobody tells you how to transition from growing a magical creature inside of your body to then have to protect said precious being from the big bad world, especially when the big bad world includes you and your inherent imperfections.
Maternity leave was the longest stretch I’d gone without working since I was a teenager, and my brain didn’t know what to do but to fold in on itself. I walked miles and miles around the neighborhood with my fragile newborn strapped to my chest. One day, rather than looking at my surroundings or my feet, my focus was rolled inward as I tried to outrun my thoughts. An uneven patch of sidewalk caught my toe and I tripped, lurching forward. Instinctively, I put my hand on my baby’s head, as if I could protect him from the entire weight of my body about to crush his malleable skull into the sidewalk. I saw the rest of my ruined life flash before my eyes, a life in which I could never escape the guilt and devastation that my clumsiness had killed my son. My torso reached a 45 degree angle with the sidewalk before I righted myself, breathless, my newborn still sleeping soundly against my chest. For now, I was still living in the universe where I was my son’s safe person rather than his destroyer.
Paul Booth
Email: write@paulbooth.net
Shoot Out in the Desert
As told by the kid with freckles, big ears, and a whole lot of questions
I was six and three-quarters, which is almost seven, which is practically grown up—at least that’s what I told myself when they left me with my uncles for the weekend. My uncles were wild and loud and funny, and they always smelled like smoke and something sharp and sour—like beer, motor oil and mischief.
I didn’t know I had applied for it, but they said I was finally getting initiated as one of the Coppage Boys. They grinned when they said it, like I was about to get a secret badge or learn a handshake only certain people knew. I didn’t know what it meant to be a Coppage Boy, but I knew it was something, and I was excited. Nervous too. Like the time I got to hold a baby chick and thought I might squish it if I squeezed too hard.
My favorite place in the world was Grandma’s house. It was colorful and warm and smelled like flour and smoke and fresh coffee. We played cards together late into the night. We drank percolated coffee with canned cream from matching copper-colored mugs — even mine, although mine had more milk and sugar. I loved spending nights at my grandma’s house, where everyone belonged when not working or drinking hard. I slept on the big lumpy couch that made farting sounds when you moved. You could barely hear them because of too many pillows and handmade quilts. I would watch TV until the star-spangled banner played, and the Chief would buzz on the Black-and-White screen. Black and White TVs make spooky movies more ominous for young boys up late at night alone.
That house only had two bedrooms, but it felt like all my aunts and uncles lived there. Later, I found out they didn’t. They came and went like wind—loud and fast, and then gone.
Grandpa Bill, the quiet Cherokee man, and his brother Uncle Ross who was even more quiet, lived next door, and I thought maybe that’s how you stayed married so long—by having your own house. He didn’t say much, maybe three words my whole life, and that felt like plenty.
Grandma didn’t say much either. Not to her kids. But to me? She told stories, all kinds. She was like a tiny general in an apron who could bake bread with one hand, smoke with the other, and scold the devil himself if he came near her kitchen. She never touched a drop of alcohol, but her kids drank enough to make up for it. She was funny and scary and never let anything fall apart. Not for long, anyway.
The day of the shootout started normal—well, normal for us. The sisters were in the backyard playing with plaster of Paris, making weird statues of ladies and horses and maybe angels. It was messy and loud, and they argued a lot. They always did, but I think that was how they showed they liked each other.
The uncles started drinking early. Before cartoons were over. They arm-wrestled, slapped each other for fun, and fixed cars that never really got fixed. They wore white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, cigarettes pack rolled up in one arm, and sometimes a knife on their belt. I thought they looked like soldiers or movie stars, or both.
After enough beers, one of them shouted, “Let’s go shoot rabbits!” like it was the best idea ever. I wasn’t sure how I felt about shooting a rabbit. I asked for a bunny for a pet one Easter. Instead, I got a — wanted one for a pet one Easter but got a gosling that dad thought was a duck. Grandma had to keep it at her house, and it got eaten when it was big enough to bite Grandma on the butt when she hung laundry.
I was the only kid going. My little brother had to stay behind. That made me feel like I had just gotten picked for the moon mission.
We all climbed into Clyde’s big green car. I think it was a Buick or something else shaped like a spaceship. The unruly bunch included Uncles Carl, Clyde, Jack, Kenny, and their good friend Duffy, whom I thought of as one of my uncles for a long time - and me.
I sat in the back, wedged between Uncle Kenny and Uncle Jack. The seat smelled like beer and sweat and damp socks, but I didn’t care. I felt like a real man. A very small, very quiet man with wide eyes and a stomach full of butterflies.
The radio played songs with funny names like “Purple People Eater” and “Volare.” The car bounced like a boat every time we hit a bump, and the uncles smoked and laughed and argued about who had the best aim. I tried to laugh too, but the smoke made my eyes water and my throat itch. I didn’t complain. Complaining was not allowed.
When we got to the desert, it was like landing on the moon. Nothing but dust and rocks and sky. No trees. No rabbits yet. Just dirt that stuck to your face and got in your ears. We turned off the road onto a trail that looked like it had been made by someone drunk driving a tank. The car rocked and swayed, and my head kept smacking against Kenny’s arm and the back of the front seat. They thought it was hilarious.
Then the car stopped, and the real show began.
Out came the beers first—foamy and warm from the trunk—and then the guns. Rifles. Handguns. A shotgun, maybe. It was hard to tell. Everyone had something. They started climbing on the hood and the roof like kids playing pirate ship. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just sat there, trying not to blink too much.
We drove with no headlights, slowly crawling along the dirt road like a monster sneaking up on a camp. Someone whispered, “Rabbit!” and BAM—the headlights flashed on, and that poor little animal froze like a statue. Then everybody opened fire. The sound was so loud it knocked the thoughts out of my head. I thought maybe the world had exploded.
I didn’t even see the rabbit after. Just a puff of dust and some arguing over who got the kill shot. I tried to feel proud, but mostly I felt bad for the bunny and a little bit scared of my uncles.
Later, just before the sun came up, we stopped in a canyon and made sandwiches. White bread. Mustard. Bologna. I was starving. Then more shooting. This time at beer cans. I liked that better. The cans didn’t have eyes.
And then the real shooting started.
We heard a shot from far away, and nobody knew where it came from. Another one. Dust kicked up near the car. My heart jumped into my throat. Uncle Clyde had snuck off and was now firing at us from the top of the ridge. Or near us, he said later. But I didn’t know that at the time.
The other uncles shot back. I ducked. I tried to be brave. Kenny grabbed me like a football and ran behind a giant rock. We hid there while bullets zinged and echoed like fireworks. I didn’t know if I should cry or throw up. For a second, I wondered if this was what it meant to be a Coppage Boy—getting shot at by your own blood.
Then someone yelled “TRUCE!” because Clyde hit the car twice – one shot off the radio antenna and another in the radiator. I guess he realized we still needed it to get home.
And just like that, it was over. Nobody was hurt. The ammo was gone. So was the beer.
We drove home with the radiator leaking, smoke curling out of the hood, everyone laughing like it was the best hunting trip ever. I didn’t laugh. I fell asleep when my heart slowed down.
I had a lot of questions. I didn’t ask them. I had a lot of thoughts. I saved them.
But I learned some things that day. Like don’t shoot at your own car. And mustard sandwiches taste better when you’re scared. And if you’re hunting rabbits with uncles, maybe bring a helmet.
Just in case.
And ever since then, every time I hear a gunshot or hear the purple people eater—my stomach tightens, and I remember the sound of beer cans bouncing off rocks and uncles laughing like war heroes.
We had been traveling at 35 miles per hour for 15 hours on ragged, bumpy, narrow roads filled with dust in a rundown, past-retirement SUV trying to get to the entrance of the Serengeti Game Preserve park. We had broken down along the way twice. Our driver spoke no English and was obviously not the person who was supposed to pick us up at the windswept border between Kenya and Tanzania. We prayed the gate would be open even though it was past nightfall.
It was not.
There was no place to go and sleeping in that vehicle with the wild beasts all around us was assuredly a dangerous experiment. Begging and pleading with the gatekeeper was not working, I was close to tears and decided to go for it. Weeping, partly for real and partly for show, on the shoulder of the woman gatekeeper brought is success. She opened the gates with the admonition to drive quickly to avoid any unwanted encounters with the night time prowls of the nocturnal creatures within. Our driver, just as frightened as we were, barrelled through the darkness as we bounced and became airborne on the the many twists and turns that brought us to the shelter of the safari lodge.
One day a few years ago, while negotiating traffic on a four-lane highway, I was heading into the mix aster when I glanced in my rear-view mirror just in time to see someone go from the far right lane across all four lanes and bounce off the median. I wished I could go back and help, but I was in no position with the heavy traffic, it would have been suicide. I could only pray he or she was alright and had had a medical emergency that caused them to lose control.
This is an excerpt from, An Adirondack Story, published in the July issue of the Write Launch. If interested, you can go there, or to my website (mdaltonart.com) and find out if I indeed dodged that bullet back in 1975.
The police separated us into two cop cars. One car contains Stephen and Hugh; my boyfriend Matthew and I ride in a separate car. They didn’t handcuff us, but they certainly looked me up and down with disdain. I’m feeling overwhelmed and lightheaded because just before the police came, Hugh shoved his marijuana on me. He told me to hide it in my underwear because “they won’t search a girl.” I complied but questioned my judgement. And now I’m on my way to the police station feeling like a captured bird.
Matthew glances at me and puts his hand over my arm and squeezes signally it will be okay. I’m not so sure. He doesn’t know about the marijuana, and I can’t tell him now. My mind races as my thoughts drift. How could I have been so naïve? Weed is illegal. People go to prison for possession. And I don’t even smoke pot! I need to get rid of it. Matthew touches my hand in a gesture of tenderness. He recognizes my anguish. I lean my head against his shoulder, swallow hard, and hold back from crying. I think back to the guy that was blocking Hugh’s truck and saying he was making a citizen’s arrest. That was the same guy that hassled Matthew about his long hair in the diner this morning. The same one that sneered at me, likely because I was the only girl with three boys. Mr. CB radio.
I was newly divorced and still figuring out dating at 40. While chatting with a very nice man on Match, we decided to meet up at a local restaurant. His photos were unusually small on the website but I told myself not to be so judgy and be more trusting. When I arrived at the bar I expected to see a guy in his mid-40s with a full head of hair, a trim body, and tall-ish. Looking around the place I guessed I was early because no one fit that description. And then he caught my eye. Oh God, I thought. It can’t be him. He recognized me right away because I looked EXACTLY like my profile picture.
This man was clearly in his sixties. He had a bad toupee which was a bit lopsided. His body was not at all as he described. He had a big belly and a soft, jowly face. And he was short - at least three inches shorter than me which was not what he wrote on his profile. While we nibbled appetizers (which he scarfed down, leaving me two tiny pieces of calamari), he admitted he was currently unemployed, living in his ex-wife’s basement, and would I mind buying dinner and he’d pay me back the next time? When I got up to use the restroom he patted his lap and said, “C’mon, give Daddy a little kiss.” Shortly after that comment I faked a stomach ache and begged off from the rest of the evening. He asked when we could have another date. I said, “Have a nice night,” and sped away in my mini-van, never to see him again.
thought you were going to ditch him on the way to the restroom.
Haha-- I never would have sat down!
Oh trust me, I considered that move!
Drop it here? Not a bullet exactly - an excerpt from a longer piece about not dying
It wasn’t that my parents were neglectful monsters. We had guns, but both my brother and I had taken a gun safety course and had been taught good gun handling techniques by my ex-marine father since we had been able to walk. We did it because we were children and didn’t give a shit. Nothing mattered, everything was doable and firing big fucking guns in the woods is about the best thing a redneck adolescence boy could imagine.
It was late in the fall or early winter, the trees were leafless and it was cold enough to be exhaling vapor but not so much for country boys to be in heavy clothes. We wore sweat shirts and blaze orange vests. My brother had recently grown six inches in as many months so we might have appeared almost like father and son trodding across the farrow fields, nearly frozen for the winter, that surrounded that big wooded swamp.
At some point my brother fired his gun at an old TV or lone bird or whatever we had come across. There was the dry click of the firing pin striking the shell but nothing else. He pulled the gun up and looked puzzled at the stock. The barrall was just level with the side of my face. Having graduated from a gun safety course I knew this was improper gun handling practice.
I pushed the barrel away just before the shell went off. Shot blasted out about a foot in front of my face instead of into the side of my head as it would have a mili -second earlier. The kickback from the unexpected explosion knocked my brother on his ass as he stared at me in shock. It was a rimfire, that is the firing pin struck the shell but the primer hadn’t been perfectly centered or the shell was old or had gotten damp at some point delaying the detonation for just a potentially deadly moment. This is a story not so often told and even today I don’t know if my parents have ever heard it.
Guns and children is never a good combination .. glad you literally “dodged a bullet.” You should win this competition just for the literalness of your story.