GUNS,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                                                        GUNS, GUNS. For me, gu                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                                                              ns have always been more of a theoretical idea—something I read                                                 about or saw on TV. As a kid, the closest I came to seeing a real gun was the occasional BB gu      

                                                                          n, or a friend who had a pellet gun. There was one kid in middle school who described the first time he went hunting with his father and killed a deer. He came back covered in blood, and the  

                                           other hunters   ridiculed him. That didn’t sound like much fun to me, so I generally stayed away from guns. Years later, when my father-in-law was downsizing and moving out of his house, an issue came up abo

                                          ut a gun he owned—some kind of revolver, a heavy pistol. There was a family story that he had shot someone in his house with it. For some reason, everyone thought I should be the one to take care of this gun. So

                                           I ended up driving it to the police station, very carefully, with a bunch of newspaper crumpled around it in a box, nestled in the trunk, pointing away from where I thought the gas tank might be. At the police stat

                                                      ion, there were people there with lots of guns—or maybe just lots of people with guns. The officer behind the glass window had to confirm things with another officer. Eventually, one of them came out and

                                                              looked at it. “Why do you want to get rid of it?” They didn’t want it, either, but after much discussion, they decided one of them could take it, after all. I left, but then realized I should probably get a receip

                                                              t. So I had to go back. This took the better part of the morning. It might have been easier to throw it into a lake, but no one had ever taught me how to check a gun for bullets. After my mother died, we fo

                                                              und a small, gold-handled pistol tucked away in a shoebox. It was so dainty, it almost looked like a toy. Then we found a journal entry from my father, describing how he’d used that gun when he and my

                                                           mother were dating. They went on a picnic, and shot a snake with it. They were not fond of snakes. Any snake found on their property was immediately beheaded. My sister ended up taking the gun. She

                                                           carries it in her pocketbook, I believe. That’s everything I know about guns.—Brian K. Johnson, 2026. GUNS, GUNS, GUNS. For me, guns have always been more of a theoretical idea—something I read abou

                                                  t or saw on TV. As a kid, the closest I came to seeing a real gun was the occasional BB gun, or a friend who had a pellet gun. There was one kid in middle school who described the first time he went hunting wi

                                          th his father and killed a deer. He came back covered in blood, and the other hunters ridiculed him. That didn’t sound like much fun to me, so I generally stayed away from guns. Years later, when my father-in-la

                              w was downsizing and moving out of his house, an issue came up about a gun he owned—some kind of revolver, a heavy pistol. There was a family story that he had shot someone in his house with it. For some reason

                          , everyone thought I should be the one to take care of this gun. So I ended up driving it to the police station, very carefully, with a bunch of newspaper crumpled around it in a box, nestled in the trunk, pointing away from

                          where I thought the gas tank might be. At the police station, there were people there with lots of guns—or maybe just lots of people with guns. The officer behind the glass window had to confirm things with another of  

                              ficer. Eventually, one of them came out and looked at it. “Why do you want to get rid of it?” They didn’t want it, either, but after much discussion, they decided one of them could take it, after all. I left, but then realize   

                              d I should probably get a receipt. So I had to go back. This took the better part of the morning. It might have been easier to thr                                   ow it into a lake, but no                                                                                          

                                              one had ever taught me how to check a gun for bullets. After my mother died, we found a small, gold-handled pist                                                                                                                                                                             

                                                  ol tucked away in a shoebox. It was so dainty, it almost looked like a toy. Then we                           found a journ                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                          al entry from my father, describing how he’d used that gun when he and my                                  mothe                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                                          r were dating. They went on a picnic, and shot a snake with it. They wer                                       e not fo                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                                          nd of snakes. Any snake found on their property was immediately behea                                      ded. My                                                                                                                                                                                       

                                                           sister ended up taking the gun. She carries it in her pocketbook, I believ                                        e. That                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                                      ’s everything I know about guns.—Brian K. Johnson, 2026. GUNS, GUNS, GU                                  NS. For me                                                                                                                                                                                       

                                                      , guns have always been more of a theoretical idea—something I read about                              or saw on                                                                                                                                                                                            

                                                   TV. As a kid, the closest I came to seeing a real gun was the occasional BB gun, or a friend who had a pe                                                                                                                                                                                           

                                              llet gun. There was one kid in middle school who described the first time he went hunting with his fath                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                              er and killed a deer. He came back covered in blood, and the other hunters ridiculed him. That didn                                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                          ’t sound like much fun to me, so I generally stayed away from guns. Years later, when my father-i                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                          n-law was downsizing and moving out of his house, an issue came                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

                                       up about a gun he owned—some kind of revolver, a heavy pisto                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

                                      l. There was a family story that he had shot someone in hi                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

                                      s house with it. For some reason, everyone thought I sho                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                  uld be the one to take care of this gun. So I ended up driving                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                               it to the police station, very carefully, with a bunch of news                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                              paper crumpled around it in a box, nestled in the trunk, po                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

                              inting away from where I thought the gas tank might be.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

                           At the police station, there were people there with lots of gu                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

                      ns—or maybe just lots of people with guns. The officer behi                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

                  nd the glass window had to confirm things with another offi                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

                  cer. Eventually, one of them came out and looked at it. “Why                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

               do you want to get rid of it?” They didn’t want it, either, but                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

               after much discussion, they decided one of them could take                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

               it, after all. I left, but then realized I should probably get a                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

          receipt. So I had to go back. This took the better part of the mo                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

      rning. It might have been easier to throw it into a lake, but no                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

   one had ever taught me how to check a gun for bullets. After                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

   my mother died, we found a small, gold-handled pistol tucke                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

d away in a shoebox. It was so dainty, it almost looked like a to                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

y. Then we found a journal entry from my father, describing                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

how he’d used that gun when he and my mother were dat                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

ing. They went on a picnic, and shot a snake with it. They                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

were not fond of snakes. Any snake found on their proper                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

ty was immediately beheaded. My sister ended up taking                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

the gun.        She carries it in her pocketbook, I believe. Th                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

  at’s ev                         erything I know about guns.—Brian                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

                                                          K. Johnson, 2026.