“An AR-15 has 15 functioning parts. The length of the gun, the speed of the bullet determines how lethal a fatality is. / The time it takes to unload the empty chamber. / That one flick can cause a mass destruction.”
An AR-15 has 15 functioning parts. The length of the gun, the speed of the bullet determines how lethal a fatality is.
The time it takes to unload the empty chamber.
That one flick can cause a mass destruction.
The silver ruthless bullets that trigger screams of horror.
The painful, excruciating sound when the revolver clicks revealing the sight of ammunition.
The cylinder, when inclined, locks the hammer into place.
The trigger requires an explicit amount of pressure to fire.
The target erupts, opening a door that cannot be closed. A ruthless act that cannot be undone. A callous school shooting cannot be undone.
That it has many working parts.
The morning of, the child believes the day will be like every other day.
A test first period.
The sound of the bell at 8:15.
The sound of countless kids screaming in the cafeteria.
The sound of bookbags dropping like a ton of bricks. The sound of birds chirping, on the morning on February 14.
The sound of 17 sharp gunshots.
A day filled with laughter was turned into horror in seconds.
The first shot triggers a lockdown.
The bell rings.
Code Red, but it doesn’t seem like a code red. One thought this would never happen to them but it did.
The fire alarm pounds loud in my ears as chaos erupts.
Classrooms become inescapable like gas chambers.
The shooter shoots. The sounds are still and silent.
The eyes are tearful and the stomachs are churning.
The police arrive, with precision, as a shot is fired, the separation begins for the student body.
Those living and those that the shots have hit.
That one massacre of school children triggers the carnage lost in Boston.
Why does this keep happening?
But we barely notice until we marry 6 feet under the ground.
I thought this was supposed to be a good day?
The day with pencils tapping on the desks.
The sound of gossiping.
The sound of teachers demanding for classwork.
The sound of the chairs tipping back.
It all disappears in seconds.
The stoplight turns red but the gun turns green.
The gun doesn’t kill people, the numbers do.
3100 South Springfield Avenue. A truck turned the corner. Not the ice cream truck. This gray truck was mean. It forced her to fight for her life in the hospital bed until 5:24 p.m.. The doctor says, “I’m sorry for the words that I’m about to say.”
Sunday, October 1, 2017, Las Vegas, Nevada. 58 gone. Near the Mandalay Bay.
I was there 2 years prior.
Texas, Sutherland Springs, a day we cherish Jesus and stare at the cross. 26 souls joined with him, but not out of sacrifice. Just one out of sacrifice, but he didn’t have to die if it wasn’t for that silver bullet!
But the debate on gun control only lasted for so long after the Columbine shooting.
How many more times?
A teacher takes a bullet to save her 6 students.
The child did not get a chance to hug Mommy and say, “I love you.”
A father is heartbroken.
He cannot even remember if he even kissed his little girl goodbye when she left for school the morning on February 14.
Now the father is saying, “Enough is Enough.”
