A Writer’s Take on the Gun Control Debate

As both sides seem unable to reach a satisfactory agreement on gun control, perhaps we should look to our writers, novelists and scholars. These people have trained themselves to not just think outside the box, but to create entirely new boxes.

The Amy Rose Device

In my short story, The Shooting of Amy Rose, my MC cobbles together a device that will disarm would-be shooters and identify them, all without having to pay for guards or do background checks, or arm anyone else, or bother limiting the number of bullets law-abiding citizens can purchase.

Crazy, right? The device (SPOILERS AHEAD) looks like an armored metal detector, but instead of detecting metal, it identifies gun signatures using a sohpisticated solid state CPU.

And then it activates (within a micro-second) the giant electromagnet buried just beneath the thin floor on which the would-be shooter is standing. The device yanks the gun out of the man’s hands, ID’s him with its bullet-proof photo lens, and sits pretty, sending the footage directly to the police and FBI.

Nice and clean and simple. Such a device may be science-fiction, but the story is filled with hope.

Check out the first page below:

Church is better with a beautiful girl by your side, Brian thought as he stared at Amy, she of the vibrant red hair. It nearly reached down to her hips. Sometimes he caught himself gazing, almost hypnotized by those strands, by her beauty, by her delicate facial features, and at those impossibly smooth hands, so different from his own callused mitts.

“Pay attention,” Amy Rose chided in a playful murmur. “God is watching.” That pixy grin had no place in the house of God. But there it was anyway, just for Brian Collins.

He turned his focus reluctantly onto the preacher, who was standing up front on the podium, telling everyone to rise and join him in worship.

A few stanzas of some new unfamiliar tune, then they were onto ‘How Great is Our God’.

It was a moving rendition, a cappella, powerful enough to filch Brian’s attention from Amy. They were three verses in—the air a bit stifling and tainted by bad breath but filled with peace for all that—when the crescendo came on like the Holy Spirit. Brian closed his eyes and let it sweep him away. Even Amy Rose stood a distant second at times like these, when the Spirit moved over the congregation. He raised a hand in praise.

‘How great is our God, sing with me: how great is our God!’

POP. POP-POP.

Brian opened his eyes. What was that?

Looking around, he noticed others had stopped singing too. Everywhere he looked there were strange glances, consternated expressions.

POP. A flash of color in the corner of his eye. A fleshy thump was followed by a low murmured grunt.

“What is that?” When he turned to Amy with this question, he realized she was no longer standing beside him. He looked down. There she was, lying on the dark red Berber carpet. Was she prostrating herself? It was such an odd sight that he almost chuckled. But then someone screamed, and in the same instant Brian noticed the carpet around Amy morphing into a liquid red, brighter than the fine woven strands of carpet—too bright.

Screams filled the sanctuary as Brian finally knelt down beside her. The music had stopped, to be taken up by this hellish refrain.

Worship was over.

If you like, check out the rest of the story here.