The smell of gunpowder is fresh. You're very young, and your fingers do not hold the dexterity that age and experience might bring. But habit already makes the motion easy. Back goes the trigger - to half, to full, to raise it out the marbled window you lean lazily out from many stories up, aiming at the form of a sparrow in the yellowing trees that line a nearby garden, framing the dulled gray of the sky.
The shot rings, as do your ears, and every bird in the general vicinity goes flying. Your mouth tightens in displeasure at the one sparrow wavers into the stone walls of a nearby building, injured but still alive. Not good enough. A sullen hum drawls out as you blow the residue from the barrel and start to clean off the flint, even as light, pattering footsteps echo across the floor behind where you sit. She calls your name, something you register through the ringing... and promptly punctuated by a jerk of pain when she gently tugs at the braid behind your neck in impatience, chanting each syllable with a bounce to her that carries the curls of her hair like the flickers of a flame on the wisps of an evening breeze.
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The shot rings, as do your ears, and every bird in the general vicinity goes flying. Your mouth tightens in displeasure at the one sparrow wavers into the stone walls of a nearby building, injured but still alive. Not good enough. A sullen hum drawls out as you blow the residue from the barrel and start to clean off the flint, even as light, pattering footsteps echo across the floor behind where you sit. She calls your name, something you register through the ringing... and promptly punctuated by a jerk of pain when she gently tugs at the braid behind your neck in impatience, chanting each syllable with a bounce to her that carries the curls of her hair like the flickers of a flame on the wisps of an evening breeze.
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SEONHO
TSURUMARU