Sometimes i get bored and write short stories.
Heres one for you.
I am....
I remember the day I was born.
The crash of steel on steel.
The rough hands of the man that made me.
I remember how careful he was, making sure that I functioned flawlessly.
I remember the first round I fired.
I remember the roar as I emptied the magazine inserted into me, the scrape of metal on metal as the bolt carrier flew back and forth, like a primal scream.
I sang a song, made of creaking wood and sliding metal, of pinging springs and the hum of my barrel as the rounds flew down it.
I remember how another man sighted me in, so that I would be strike where I was most needed.
I remember being covered in some brown goop, god what a mess I am now.
I remember being stacked in a rack with others like me.
I remember the cold of the place, how the light filtered in through the small window of the armory.
I remember watching the dust fall through the air and settle upon me.
I sat here for days, months, years.
Waiting.....
Hoping that I would be needed.
I remember giving up hope as the thin layer of rust formed on my barrel.
I could feel the corrosion forming between my trunnion and receiver.
I remember the light!
A different man, older, opening the door to the armory.
He was very different from the man who had put me here, he wore strange clothes, not like the green uniform of the armorer.
He didn't care about me.
I was thrown into a box with several of the others.
I remember the rough wooden lid begin nailed shut.
Rough shaking, then for the longest time a gentle rocking.
A scraping noise!
The lid is being removed.
A bright light and another man, completely unlike the others I have known.
He speaks in a Language I don't understand.
I see the look in his eyes, he doesn't like me.
My number is checked along with the rest and the lid is replaced.
Another rough shaking and then the box I am in is dropped on the ground.
I can hear the wood of my crate ripping apart.
Another man, I cannot understand what he is saying but I can tell he cares.
I am unpacked from the crate, the man looks at every part of me.
I want to scream to him, "Yes I can still work!! Please use me!"
But I cannot.
I am placed onto a pile with the others like me.
This place seems somehow familiar.
The smell of oil and sweat.
It reminds me of the day i was made.
I hope there is one here like the man who made me.
Oh no! what are they doing to me?!?!?
I feel the torch as it cuts through my receiver!
The are going to destroy me!!
Wait oh god please wait I can still be useful!!!!
Don't do this to me!!!!
I am dropped roughly onto a table, hearing the crackling as the cuts in me cool.
Why was I made, why was I sent here just to be destroyed?
Another man, I can feel his hands as he roughly tears my insides out and throws them in a bag.
The plastic of the bag has a horrible stench to it, I can feel the moisture seeping into my wound.
This is what I was made for? To be torn apart so that I can rot away in a bag in some god forsaken place?
More movement, I don't care anymore.
Sitting in a box on a cold damp concrete floor, slowing rusting away.
This is no way to live.
Someone places me into a box, at least he is gentle with me.
More shaking and darkness, what will they destroy on me next?
Why do this to me?!? Was my barrel not good enough? Was I not accurate enough?
A new person opens my box and takes me out.
Strange, he seems to care about me, I can feel it.
He carefully opens the bag I am in and sits me on a table.
I can see all my pieces arranged on a table around me.
He looks over the cut in me and curses in a language i still cant grasp.
Oh god not again!!!
The grinder scrapes against my sides.
Oh god this is it, I'm finally going to be destroyed completely!!!
The rivets holding me together are torn out of me and my receiver is stripped away.
I feel the chemicals soak into me, freeing me from this brown gooey mess I've been covered in for so long.
I feel the rag as it passes over me, wiping away the long years worth of dust and grime.
The man cleans every inch of me, removing as much corrosion and gunk as he can.
Hot water! No if I get wet I will rust!
The last of the gunk washes away, I am clean.
But I can feel the rust forming quickly now, every second it grows.
Oil! Oh thank you god its oil!
The man carefully wipes down every inch of me, making sure I am oiled so the rust will not form.
Wait, what is he doing?
Why is he cleaning me if hes going to destroy me?
What is this?
A new receiver?
I can feel it as my pin and barrel are pressed out.
I feel the receiver as it slides over my trunnions, the crash of steel on steel again as new rivets are installed.
The pressure as my barrel is pushed in, the pin being hammered into place.
I watch him as he cleans my stock and handguards.
Small pieces of myself floating through the air as he sands away.
I can feel the stain as it soaks into my wood.
The Lacquer feels good on my wood, soaking into me, filling every pore.
The screws holding my stock on are finally in place.
I can feel the magazine as it slides into me and locks into place.
Once more I can sing!
No wait, somethings wrong!
What did he do? It feels like part of me is missing.
Why are my trip arm and sear doing out? I can't work as I'm supposed to with out them.
Hurry up and finish me!
But he won't.
I can feel the hair of his cheek against my stock.
His breath blowing against my new receiver as he aims me.
The squeeze as he presses on my trigger.
The shock of my bolt carrier flying back jolts both him and I.
The scream of steel sliding on steel.
I am alive again.
Almost.
Why won't he finish me?
I can see standing in the door to his shop, the sunlight fading in the sky.
I can understand his words now and I know why he won't finish me.
He holds my final pieces in his had and looks down at them.
Some day I will be complete but not now.
He can't finish me.
But I am reborn.
And one day when I am needed most I know I will feel the cutting as I am drilled into, the sweat and cursing of my owner as he hurries to put my final pieces in.
And on that day I will sing again.
And I will reign down death onto anyone who will try to destroy me.
I am Steel and Wood.
I am the sweat of my maker.
I am the love of my new owner.
I am Avtomat Kalashnikova.
Explanation
When firearms are imported into the US they have to be cut down per BATF regulations.
