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    Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology: Black Heart Digital Anthologies, #2
    Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology: Black Heart Digital Anthologies, #2
    Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology: Black Heart Digital Anthologies, #2
    Ebook187 pages2 hours

    Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology: Black Heart Digital Anthologies, #2

    By Hobie Anthony, B. Morris Allen, Erin Armstrong and

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    About this ebook

    "We cannot get rid of mankind’s fleetingly wicked wishes. We can get rid of the machines that make them come true. I give you a holy word: DISARM." –Kurt Vonnegut, Deadeye Dick

    As the U.S. continues to simmer with violence, and mass-shootings continue to pile bodies into graves at an alarming rate, it’s time to take action.

    No more “thoughts and prayers.”

    No more fuzzy sentiments.

    No more excuses.

    No more bullshit.

    Disarm, a charity anthology created by Black Heart Magazine, will include short fiction, personal essays and poetry in a gun sense anthology, which will wholly benefit the Gun Safety Lobby to bring about legislation and meaningful changes to our country.

    All proceeds will benefit Everytown for Gun Safety.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Heart Magazine
    Release dateApr 30, 2017
    ISBN9781370107193
    Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology: Black Heart Digital Anthologies, #2

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      Book preview

      Disarm - Hobie Anthony

      The Chambers of a Gun

      Suzanne Langlois

      A gun has 26 working parts.

      The length of the barrel, the speed of the bullet

      and the caliber of the ammunition determine its lethality.

      There are six chambers in the cylinder.

      When cocked, the hammer clicks as it locks into place.

      The trigger requires a precise amount of pressure to fire.

      The target erupts as the bullet forces entry,

      opening a door that can’t be closed—

      an act that cannot be undone.

      A school shooting has countless working parts.

      The lengths to which the shooter will go to force entry,

      the speed of the response,

      and the caliber of the security system determine its lethality.

      The first shot triggers a lockdown.

      The fire alarm sounds as chaos erupts—

      classrooms become as inescapable as gas chambers.

      The shooter burns through clips of bullets until police,

      moving with precision, secure the building, re-opening closed doors,

      separating the student body into living and dead.

      The senate has 100 working parts.

      The size of the majority, the length of their terms,

      and the caliber of the lobbyists determine its productivity.

      This massacre of school children triggers debate in the chamber,

      but while the men and women are deadlocked,

      arguing endlessly behind closed doors,

      two pressure cookers erupt in Boston,

      and new images of carnage force entry to our minds.

      We barely notice when the senate body rejects gun control.

      The American electorate has 200 million working parts.

      The size of the tragedy, the length of the media coverage,

      and the caliber of press photographers determine the level of outrage.

      Pressure builds and erupts in shocked headlines,

      but the firing squad has no trigger to pull.

      The shooter’s last bullet forced entry to his skull,

      closing the door to why and leaving only what and a little how,

      which is not a question we want to answer.

      The four chambers of the human heart

      are each filled with separate desires—

      for safety, for freedom, for power, for protection.

      We are deadlocked, and minds that are closed cannot be reopened.

      But a murdered child has no working parts.

      Its body does not function.

      The size of the child at the time of death

      determines the length of the coffin.

      A coffin is a chamber lined with silk and sorrow.

      Once the lid clicks shut, it cannot be reopened.

      When will this trigger more than tears?

      When will we feel the pressure of small hands hammering

      on the locked doors of our hearts?

      As soon as our eyes are dry, we shut them again.

      In Our Blood

      Rasmenia Massoud

      Aim for the bull's-eye, then squeeze the trigger. Carter slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and stares down the field at the paper target tacked to the fencepost.

      I’m not into this, I say.

      Give it a whirl. It’s for your own good. He keeps his eyes on the target.

      This is how my brother protects his younger sister, how he keeps me safe. Carter doesn’t understand that the damage is already done, that this isn’t giving me a sense of security. There are worlds inside me I can’t make my brother understand.

      I squeeze the trigger. Hit my mark. Perfect shot. Carter claps his hands together. Right on. Now picture that son of a bitch’s face when you shoot. Imagine bringing that motherfucker down the next time he messes with you.

      I set the pistol down on the picnic table. Nah, I think that’s enough for one day.

      What? We’re just getting started. He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. You have to prepare, Susie. Arm yourself. This guy might try to hurt you. Or another guy. There’s always someone out there meaning to do you harm.

      So many things I keep from my brother. He’s seen the green van circling my apartment. He knows I reported my ex-boyfriend to the police. He doesn’t know about the break in at my home. He doesn’t know I woke up to find Jason on top of me.

      These are things I don’t say to my brother. To keep him safe. To keep him from doing what cannot be undone.

      Carter hands me the gun. Let’s try it a few more times.

      I shoot again. And again. The hole in the center of the target grows larger.

      You’re good at this, Carter says. Strange, since you were always wiggling out of target practice with me and the old man. It must be in our blood.

      When we were kids, my brother went shooting with our father almost every weekend. Each time, I had an excuse to stay behind. I’d feign some sort of sickness, or claim to have an overwhelming amount of homework to do. Our old man made his disappointment with a cutting remark, or worse, with a sigh and a shake of his head.

      I try Carter’s suggestion. I imagine Jason’s face on the bull’s-eye. I miss. I don’t even hit the target. I set the gun back on the table.

      Hey, I say. Remember when Dad built the secret arsenal?

      One night when Carter and I were in high school, we awoke to our mother’s screams. We rushed to the living room and found our dad with a fistful of our mom’s wavy blond hair, punching her in the back.

      My brother bounded straight toward them, attempting to pull our parents apart. I scurried back down the hall and called the police. As I hung up the phone, a silence settled, smothering everything. The screaming and fighting had stopped. I turned to see my family staring at me, wide-eyed and mouths agape.

      Susie, my mother asked. What did you do?

      Our father didn’t wait to hear my answer. His pace frantic, he darted about the house, amassing every firearm he owned. I hadn’t realized until that day how many he kept in the house.

      Once he’d finished, our father sat at the kitchen table in silence. We looked on, wondering if we should be fearful of his unspoken plans.

      After a long, burning silence, he rubbed his bald head and folded his arms across his chest. At least I can take a few of those pigs out with me.

      Jesus, Tom. Our mother didn’t sound afraid, only weary. They’re not coming here to have a shootout with you.

      Outside the living room window, a police cruiser came to a gradual stop. A lone officer emerged from the car, in no apparent hurry, and strode to our front porch. Mom opened the door, wasting no time in explaining to the officer that it was all a silly mistake. Her foolish daughter didn’t know any better and made an unnecessary call.

      As she babbled on, his gaze drifted past my mother, and into the kitchen, at my father, surrounded by an absurd number of guns. My fear dissipated and I felt a twinge of disappointment when my father did nothing aside from responding with belligerent and immature nonsense each time the cop asked him a question. His brash plan to engage in a firefight with a single police officer responding to a domestic disturbance was all cowardice and bluster. He hid behind his circle of handguns and rifles as though it meant something.

      When the cop had enough, he took my father away for threatening a police officer. Once the cuffs were secured around his wrists, my father went without a word of protest. The three of us stood at the window, observing in silence until the patrol car drove away.

      My mother let the curtain fall over the window and looked down at me. I hope you’re happy with yourself.

      I didn’t do anything. If he talked to the cop like a normal person, he wouldn’t have gotten arrested.

      Shut up. Go to bed. Both of you.

      My brother mussed my hair as we headed to our rooms. He didn’t say a word, but the look he gave me as he stepped through his bedroom door said, You’re an idiot.

      When my father returned home a few days later, he gutted the living room wall, ripping out the fireplace and beginning work on the secret arsenal. He didn’t acknowledge my presence and it was a few more weeks before he would.

      He installed a gun rack and some shelves in the hollow space. He made a fake wall with a piece of wood paneling that he could slide in and out on metal tracks that he’d mounted on either side of the secret space.

      Carter labored alongside him, ever the faithful assistant.

      Our mother, irritated at the loss of the fireplace she never used, rolled her eyes and avoided the construction area until the project was complete.

      My father’s sawing, hammering, and screwing looked like paranoia to me. He worked for days, as though his strange project was worth something.

      Carter picks up the pistol from the table and removes the magazine. Yeah, of course I remember. That thing was cool as shit.

      What was the point of it?

      The point? To keep his guns safe. Away from prying eyes.

      That’s dumb. Nobody gave a shit about his guns. He was paranoid.

      Yeah, maybe. Carter shrugs. I dunno.

      You ever wonder what our lives might’ve been like if Mom grabbed hold of one of those guns when he beat her?

      My brother looks at me. His eyes narrow. Why would she do something like that?

      Because he was hurting her, Carter.

      Yeah. I see what you’re saying. But you know Mom was tough. She dealt with it. She got over it. She left him. He died and she lived on.

      My big brother. So many things he doesn’t understand. I’m certain that she never got over it, but he’s right about one thing. She lived on.

      Dad didn’t die. He shot himself. Maybe if he didn’t have a gun, he’d have thought twice about what he was about to do, I say. If Mom had used one of these to protect herself the way you want me to do, maybe we’d be orphans with a dead dad and a mom in prison. But Mom was smart. She found another solution.

      Carter ignores this and hands the pistol back over to me. Try a few more.

      No, I’m done for the day.

      Susie—

      I can’t do this, Carter. I can’t aim this thing at another person. I can’t kill someone. I don’t want to.

      That ex-boyfriend of yours is a threat, Susie.

      Details and sentence fragments twirl around in my mind: the night Jason broke into my place, the day I went to the hospital. I don’t know where to begin, so I sit on the picnic table bench and run my hands through my hair.

      "I’ll move. I’ll get a dog. Or a roommate. I’ll do something else. I

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