When I was young I loved the idea of being someone else, a lone ranger, a bad cop, a drifter in an apocalypse, a performer, a rambler unable to be held down, a free spirit, a dreaming child always on the move. I would imagine entire scenarios which were full of detailed and complex relationships. I’d make up stories in my head with imagined friends and of course an imagined girlfriend. Riding round my grandparent’s poultry farm with training wheels to keep me steady. I had a fertile imagination and needed to find my own entertainment because I was on my own without siblings to play with. I had toy guns in holsters and a picture on a card of a cowgirl who was my girl. The chook farm was full of exciting smells and nooks and crannies to explore. As I rode round with the chicken’s wra, wra, wraing on either side I felt useful like I had a job to do. My imagination so fervent and stark it was a tough job keeping it in check. This was me before I knew how or why one needed any friends. Roaming for hours I was entertained and completely fulfilled living on dreams. Until Nancy called me for dinner. One day when I was rummaging around some old boxes along the side of the egg room I found an old farm gun.

It was worn and smelled like stories. I was terrified but at the same time fascinated by its smooth edge, contours and engaging handle.

“Where have you been?”

All I could do was stare and then stare some more at the dusty object that represented death, oppression and final destruction. I felt obsessed by its reason, its point of existence and compelled to know why and where it had come from.

I had no desire to show off my find to anybody else since I only knew how to play on my own and entertain myself.

“What have you done?”

Pick me up – it said

The fact that the object talked was not surprising to me at all, In fact it was expected. I picked up the gun and held it in the air. I felt its handle fit my small palm. I felt the trigger tip my fresh index finger. I felt its design and craftsmanship, it’s engineering from a time before my years. From its appearance I felt that the gun had wisdom and new things I hadn’t dared to imagine. I felt deep respect for it, partly because of its unknown history and my imaginings of the horrors that it performed. My auditor who conducts business, an object so delicately crafted, so perfect in its purpose, I knew that it was the gun who controls events.

“What would you have me do?”

I’d like you to put me in your mouth. It said flatly

“Which part the handle?”

The point dummy.

“I’m frightened.”

That’s because you don’t understand yet.

“Understand what.”

What I’m about to tell you.

“I believe this is very dangerous.”

We’re here alone, there’s only you and me, there is nothing to worry about at all. Come now and point me into your mouth.

“Ok, Liakk thhos.”


“Whaot nolw.”

Pull the trigger…