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Narrative Shooting with my Dad Essay

  • Submitted by: four21thrasher
  • on June 17, 2008
  • Category: Miscellaneous
  • Length: 1,451 words

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Below is an essay on "Narrative Shooting with my Dad" from Anti Essays, your source for research papers, essays, and term paper examples.

The polished steel of the clunky weapon outweighed my arms and overwhelmed my childish hands as my father stood courageously behind me. I struggled to direct all eight inches of the revolver’s barrel consistently down range. His gentle tap turned me around, and he patiently mouthed, “Just take your time… take your time.” I became focused.
Crack! My body jumped backwards. The gun recoiled itself toward the sky and my eyes peeled open without consent. I quickly readjusted and fixed them on the large coffee can, still intact, that lay shelved on the splintered wood beam where my sights had been fixed. A miss. My body shrugged as all the strength ran from my hairless limbs. My ears still wrung from the explosion and I was too jarred to withstand another shot. I turned to see my father reading disappointment in my face.
He winked, and stepped forward heavily, purposefully, inline with my left shoulder. I watched his elbows tightly lock and his bearded stare become deadly. He held his posture and I watched his relaxed body which refused to flinch. I envied his determination. The gun cracked again in the background, stirring my attention back to the labeled tin bucket, which now lay torn in the sand below.
I loaded the weapon for him a few more times and explained to him how my body was still shaking with vibrations - saddle and hinge joints that had quaked when I fired. He emptied the gun between our words. Like clockwork, shots rang out echoed with a metallic thud some sixty feet away. My ears, as well as my body, were throbbing, but it was fascinating to watch. It was painful too. I didn’t tell my father. I wanted to be out there. I wanted to be a good shot; whether my ten year old body would allow me to or not.
The August sun slumped into the fields and turned our sweat-laden bodies into long, drawn-out shadows. We packed the brown sack with handgun cases and ammunition, perforated metals and empty casings. My father carried the bag to our ’87 Buick...

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