Flash: Practice Shots

They walked past the compost, past the woodpile, into the back lot where the grass gave way to dust and weeds. A row of old crates leaned against the fence. The boy had never been here alone. He followed close, uncertain.

The grandfather stopped and reached into his jacket. From a cloth bundle, he unwrapped a small pistol. Dull black, almost modest.

“Hoy aprenderás algo importante,” he said.

The boy looked down at the cloth. His hands tingled, a mix of nervousness and excitement.

“¿Qué es?” he asked, though he already had a sense.

“Tu primer disparo,” said the grandfather. “No es por violencia, ni por caza. Es para que sepas lo que es tener poder en las manos. Y lo que significa responder por él.”

The boy held the pistol the way he’d seen in movies, too tight, too high. The grandfather adjusted his fingers gently.

“Así. Con respeto. Nunca con rabia. Nunca por juego.”

There were bottles lined up on a plank across two stones. The kind of setup boys dream about. The air was still. Birds quieted.

The boy raised the pistol. Took a breath. Squeezed the trigger.

A click.

Then a sharp metallic crack as the slide jerked back and slammed into the soft flesh of his forearm. The gun had misfired. He yelped and dropped the gun. It clattered on the dirt, harmless but loud.

He looked at his arm. A red welt rising like shame. Eyes wide. Not crying. But close.

His grandfather didn’t rush. He picked up the gun and misfired slide, checked it, then looked at the boy’s arm. He nodded, not coldly, but with that same solemnity he reserved for the fig tree or the earth.

“Bueno, todavía podemos aprender de los fallos. Esto pasa cuando no escuchas al arma,” he said. “Cuando la tratas como una herramienta solamente, y no como una presencia.”

The boy nodded, unsure what that meant but knowing it mattered.

“Cada cosa viva o no, tiene su carácter. El metal también habla.”

He paused, then added more softly:

“Así es la vida a veces. Crees que vas a hacer un disparo limpio, y justo cuando aprietas… te pega de vuelta.”

They sat for a while under the eucalyptus. The boy pressed a cool leaf against his arm.

“You said it wasn’t for violence,” he said.

“No,” said the grandfather. “Era para enseñarte que el poder verdadero no siempre hace ruido. Y que el primer golpe… muchas veces te lo das a ti mismo.”

The boy was quiet.

Then, almost as an afterthought, the grandfather smiled faintly.

“Y ahora ya sabes: no hay acto sin riesgo. Pero tampoco hay crecimiento sin herida.”

// Zero Strike