(Nightmare or Vision) DJ Bishop, Western Writer, Writers, Western Author, Fiction Writer, Speaker, Cowboy, Novel, Novels

In an instant both boys had run by me and out the door. I gathered up the newspaper from beside my chair in the living room, and leisurely followed along behind, thinking of how lucky I was to have two fine sons and a wife who I loved with all my heart. And how blessed we were to live in such a quiet and peaceful neighborhood, where over the years there had been very little trouble and the kids for the most part could run and play without worry. Out on the porch I dropped into the swing like I did every evening after a long hard day. It was early fall, and with the recent break in the heat, and the good, slow, soaking rains over the past couple of weeks, the grass was green, and the yard looked better than it had all summer.

My wife Lea and I had bought this house just a couple of months before we got married. Over the last eight years I had worked steadily in the yard, putting down sod, planting two pecan trees, and building the flower beds in the front, and planting shrubs along the driveway. The house too, needed work, like adding new cabinets to the kitchen, and replacing the dishwasher. And just last year the hot water heater went out, so we had to replace it. But other than being an older house in one of the older parts of town, it had been well taken care of, and for its age, the old house was in pretty good shape. The only complaint I really had about the house, or its location was the street that ran in front was a major thoroughfare, and at all hours day or night there was heavy traffic. Making it very important to teach both boys from the time they could walk, the street, like the cabinet where the cleaning supplies were kept, and the drawer where I kept my daddy’s old handgun, was dangerous and to get no closer to it than the sidewalk.

I sat watching my sons run and play; then I began flipping aimlessly through the newspaper until my eyes fell upon an article about a man who lived just a few blocks away being beaten to death with a fire-poker, and his assailant, the police reported, was his very own son. The next article told of an older lady who was sitting in her living room watching TV when a rock thrown by an angry neighbor boy came crashing through the window striking her in the head killing her instantly. The next article told of some teenagers being caught vandalizing several headstones of a nearby cemetery. And the next was about five young people, three boys and two girls, coming upon a homeless man sleeping in the alley behind the bank. They deliberately doused the poor old soul with gasoline and set him aflame. Another told of a seventeen year old girl being sentenced to life in prison for conspiring with her sixteen year old boyfriend to kill her mother, father, and little brother for the insurance money. The boyfriend had stabbed them to death with a kitchen knife. All horrible crimes carried out by young people.

"What’s this world coming too," I mumbled to myself. "Is there no place a person is safe?" As I continued to read, I’d look up from time to time to take note of a car or pickup going by with its radio blaring. After a bit I relaxed back in the swing and closed my eyes. A nice little breeze blew light and cool from the west and as the sounds of the boys playing and the roar of the automobiles going by faded, I dozed off.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the swing on the porch all right, but this time my wife was sitting beside me and we were both sipping coffee. The boys were not playing in the yard as before but sitting on the steps dressed in their nice Sunday suits. I started to ask my wife what was going on, when I suddenly heard the sound of squealing tires. I looked toward the street to see a car sliding to a stop in front of the house, with a boy hanging half out the window on the passenger side holding something black. As I realized what the object was my pulse quickened, and my muscles jerked trying to move my body, but at that moment something hit me in the chest driving me hard against the back of the swing. The next instant, I saw the muzzle flash and a light wisp of smoke. I grabbed at the agonizing pain in my chest with one hand, and pushed up to stumbling feet with the other. The gun roared again, but this time it wasn’t directed at me, but at my sons as they ran screaming for cover. The bullet cut its way through the cool night air and found the back of my oldest son and entered his small frame with a loud pop. The impact sent him flying against the front of the house. At that instant, my eyes made contact with those of the young man in the car. There in those cold, dark, young eyes, I saw no feeling, no caring and no remorse, and I was sure if I could see into his heart I would see much the same thing. As I dropped to my knees I remember thinking; Why me, why my family? We have never seen this boy before, and for sure we’ve never done anything against him, we’ve not as much as spoken to him. Then I felt my body grow weak as my life drained out of me. I tried desperately to go to my son, knowing he needed me, but my body wouldn’t move and I fell onto my back. The next thing I knew, my wife was standing over me calling out, "Honey, honey, wake up, Guy."

I opened my eyes to see her standing there holding a plate with a piece of cake on it. Still quite drowsy from my short slumber, I looked down to find I was still sitting in the swing.

"Why are you sweating so much? Do you feel ok?" she asked.

I gave a nod and answered, "I feel fine."

"Here, I brought you some cake and a cup of coffee." Turning, she called out, "Boys, come on in now."

I took what she offered with a mumbled, "Thank you," and she disappeared back into the house. I wiped the cold sweat from my face with a shaky hand. I glanced to my sons; then I looked up the street one way and down it the other to find all as before.

I thought back to the boy in my dream, the one who had done the shooting. It had not been the gun that had taken our lives, but the boy holding it, the one with those eyes so full of hate and the unfeeling, uncaring heart. It could not have been the gun, because I had grown up with guns and knew guns did only what man made them do. I knew, too, a gun could lay in a drawer fully loaded for years, and never hurt anyone or anything until someone, a human picked it up. Then I remembered my first gun, a brand-new .22 rifle. My Day had given it to me as he had my three older brothers, and younger sister, for Christmas following our thirteenth birthdays, and I remembered the many hours we spent together shooting at cans and bottles, with Dad watching over us, teaching us how to handle our guns safely, and making sure we understood the responsibility. And from day one, he instilled in each of us the value of life and how fragile a thing it is.

Yes, the gun had done the damage all right, but it had done nothing and would do nothing until the boy pulled the trigger. It makes no difference where he got the gun or who he got it from, the thing that really matters is he had the coldness in his young heart to use it to take a life. It could have been a knife, a rock, a fire-poker, or yes even gasoline for that matter and it would have still ended the same way, because the killing was done by the heartless boy. He and his buddies came to my house for only one reason, and that was to kill, to destroy, to take a life, and they would have done it no matter what. They would have taken off their belts and used them to strangle us if nothing else. And if we do nothing but take the guns away, that’s still going to leave all the knives, rocks, fire-pokers, gasoline, and belts in the world and it will do nothing for the boy. He’ll still be out there, him and his buddies, still out-of-control and still heartless. We have to do something to change what’s in the hearts of our children and when we do; they can all carry guns and the guns won’t hurt anyone. Luckily this was just a dream, a nightmare, but too many times anymore it’s not a dream, it’s a cold, hard, fact of life.

Too often, lives are taken and families destroyed over nothing more than one person daring another, or someone having a jacket or a pair shoes someone else wants or just to get attention or maybe the violence is carried out for no other reason than recognition, knowing that doing something so unspeakable will get their names on the news or in the newspaper.

To see how close to reality it is, one only has to tune into the news or look in the newspaper. Then ask yourself, is it the instruments being used or the ones using them that’s doing the killing? We don’t want to think of a ten year old boy shooting, stabbing, or even choking this seven year old brother to death in a bit of rage over something as simple as taking a toy away or saying something the other one didn’t like, but it happens more than we think; we’re just not ready to accept it or to even deal with the thought.

By simply blaming an unlocked gun going off in young hands or one child accidentally hitting another in the head or inadvertently chasing a playmate out in front of a moving car, we readily accept it as an accident, because we don’t want to think of it happening in an instant of rage. But in doing that we’re not doing anything to solve the real problem, and that is; changing what’s in the hearts and minds of our children. Until we make a real effort to do that, the newscasts are just going to get longer and the newspapers thicker because with or without guns the violence is only going to get worse.