Disarm: A Gun Sense Anthology

INTRODUCTION

"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, includes short fiction, personal essays and poetry that takes on the gun sense problem with heart and soul. These are not just ethereal ponderings, but personal essays discussing the kind of violence we, in the United States, have unfortunately come to accept as normal.

We are not okay with this normalization of violence.

We are not okay with our friends and family, our neighbors and even strangers, feeling as though they are unsafe in their homes, on the streets of our cities, driving in their cars, or even in their schools.

It is well past time for Congress to step up and do the right thing, to kick the gun lobbyists and the NRA out of politics, and to protect and serve the people of this country.

We are here for gun sense, and gun safety, for all Americans.

This is not a book that intends to debate the matter. We are sick and tired of empty promises and the never-ending river of tears shed for countless victims of the mass shootings that continue to take place in America, almost weekly.

Our mission is to bring about better gun legislation and meaningful changes for our country.

All proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit Everytown for Gun Safety. To learn more about their work and mission, please see Everytown.org.

Thank you to all of our contributors, for your fine work, and to you, our readers, for supporting our mission. We hope you enjoy this anthology.

–Laura Roberts & Maggie McGarvey, Editors

San Diego, CA

April 7, 2017

Some of our selections were previously featured or published.

The Chambers of a Gun by Suzanne Langlois was previously featured on Button Poetry on January 25, 2016.

Safe by Hobie Anthony appeared in The Rumpus on May 30, 2013.

Some Kind of Comfort by Susan Rukeyser was originally published by WhiskeyPaper on October 20, 2013 and included in Wigleaf’s 2014 Top 50 Longlist.

A Trip to the Optometrist with My Son… and a Gunman by Krista Genevieve Farris was first published on Scary Mommy on August 25, 2015.

Blood on the Street by Mara Buck was originally published in limited print edition in Whirlwind #4, on May 3, 2015.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Chambers of a Gun by Suzanne Langlois

In Our Blood by Rasmenia Massoud

The Way Things Are by Candyce Pelfrey Kannengieser

Trigger by Judith Terzi

Chicago by Michael Welch

Big Plans by Virginia Carraway Stark

Bad Guys Shooting by Tanya Ward Goodman

Gun Sestina by Joan Colby

Safe by Hobie Anthony

Some Kind of Comfort by Susan Rukeyser

Too Soon, Zaevion by Marilyn Kallet

Hatred is a Gun by Sophia Diaz

A Trip to the Optometrist with My Son… and a Gunman by Krista Genevieve Farris

There Is No Playbook by Kate Berrio

You Can Pray for the Dead, but They Stay Dead by JC Reilly

The Echo by George Salis

Gunless World by Anne Harding Woodworth

Taking Dr. Bob to the Gun Show by Sean Shea

Burning Out by Anjali Ravi

Trigger Point by Katherine Tomlinson

Black Voices by Tunisia North

Today, We All Get Home by Rebecca Lynne Fullan

Make Your Own News Story by David Perlmutter

Friend Me, Maybe by April Ford

Species 225 by Dani J. Caile

January 8 by Erin Armstrong

Letters to Larry about Guns by B. Morris Allen

Blood on the Street by Mara Buck

If Ever You Have Need of My Life by Roslyn Ray

Gun Control by Emily Jo Scalzo

Of Guns and the Failure of Words by Geri Lipschultz

Litany by Sandra S. McRae

To Men with Guns and Fear by John Berry

Losses and Gains by Kurt Savage

Hashtag Activism by Maggie McGarvey

Gun Shy by Star Roberts

16-Point Plan: Execute Randomly by Daniel Roy Connelly

The Protection by Heidi Blanke

Afterword

About the Authors

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,