gunshots - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The gunshots brought back the pain; it was as if the bullet was still in his guts, as if his blood was still draining over his shirt, running warm through the coarse hairs of his legs. His stomach lurched. It was PTSD but more like a short influenza, altering him physically for the worse.
Every gunshot was the one that ripped Amy from this existence, that silenced her laughter and made dull her eyes. Every blast to the gentle air was the one that laid her warm hands so very cold. It was as if that sound had become the murderer, a brutal shout from the coldest of "lungs."
The gunshots were sounded as if they could crack a skull, as if the sound itself could purify the mind. Ram thought of that. He thought of the liquified brains like fish guts in a blender.
Macca had been in the army long enough to know a gunshot when he heard one. From the loudness he estimated the shooting was less than five hundred metres away. More worryingly the rapidity of the shots suggested something automatic. He grabbed Casey and pulled her to the snowy ground, there was no cover here. Either this was some farmer killing crows with an M2 Browning or they were in serious trouble. Then silence returned far more thickly than it was before the shots, as if everything around them was collectively holding it's breath. Now Macca was starting to sweat, flash backs invaded his thoughts and he fought to remain focused. This was no time for PTSD. He had his three month chip in his pocket and this was what he'd trained for. Combat.
The gunshots rent the still country air - too powerful to be a backfiring car. The noise reverberated in the ears and rang out far over the hills.
Gunshots in movies and video games are two-a-penny, each one only marginally increasing the viewer's adrenaline. But out here in the woodland they are as good as a hypodermic to the heart. Each one isn't simply loud, it cracks into the air and echoes around the hills, magnifying the feeling of our vulnerability.
Gunshots come thick like winter hail. The tin projectiles cutting through the frozen air, oblivious to their purpose. Each one rips into something, be it inanimate or living, spilling tree sap or blood with equal unfeeling. There was a time at least the ones pulling the trigger might have felt something, remorse, guilt, compassion. Not anymore. These bipedal human forms that stalk the land are all machine, their artificial intelligence systems backed up live to within a fraction of a second. They have achieved what we never could - immortality. When we are gone I wonder what they will do, conquerers who haven't learnt about enjoyment and love. What is it that will give them the will to keep one existing, having never learnt the most important lessons of their organic creators?
No-one wastes bullets anymore. There is no shooting in the air or wild shots in the dark. Each violent boom is a death, straight to the head, no chances to miss. Only two sides have the weapons, the new government and the old one, or are they both rebellious factions, each as illegitimate as the other?