First Light
Stray lifeless cartridges and soulless cigarette packs littered on the once vibrantly alive apartment floor. The profound smell of alcohol and smoke had long since conquered the small three room apartment, however standing high and tall upon a small bench laid the queen of the room. An old candlestick phone, connected to nothing. The time claimed it was 05:45, as it always did. The phone’s raging ring echoed throughout the small compact apartment, then halted for two seconds, it marched in tune, then halted, so on and so forth. For 12 minutes the ancient candlestick phone followed its daily routine of ringing her ring. 10.5 feet away the 5.3 Ib trigger dropped the skeletonized hammer onto a steel firing pin, engaging the .45 ACP cartridge to project the steel core bullet toward the simple phone, demanding it to yield to its thundering command, as it always did. Only millimeters away from the phone, the bullet was commanded to a bitter standstill. The screaming bullet stared down at the ancient vanguard for uncountable minutes, until, as if ordered to sit down by its mother, the bullet simply dropped out of the air. Within the utmost surgical sync that even the most advanced machine could never achieve , the ringing resumed as the unconscious bullet clung to the ground, as it always did. Finally, the always reluctant Jori got up from the small futon he called a bed within the small run down apartment he claimed was livable. He walked through the small room into the skinny hallway of the three room apartment toward the bench where the queen relentlessly lied in waiting, as she always did. He knelt on one knee so he could meet eye to eye with the ancient, yet young, candlestick phone, as he always did. Hesitantly he picked up the microphone, hearing the words that were always carried through, then held it to his lips and recited the words he always answered with,
I’m here to make it safe and sound.
He then put the transmitter back onto the switch hook, and picked up the steel core .45 ACP round and walked over to his “bed”. Bending down, he retrieved the modified 1911A1 that was issued to him in 1916. He re-holstered him into the brown leather IWB holster on his left, zipped up his blue hoodie and proceeded to the door of his apartment, grabbing his grey soft shell jacket as he left the last security he’s ever known.
