The grips for the most part were determined by the function of the pistol.
Holster pistols were the kind of guns people would carry in a holster. Thus the angle of the handle was shallow to allow for an easier draw.
Traveling pistols were the kind of pistols one carried in a case, and only used for a planned even, such as a duel. Thus the emphasis was on accuracy, not fast draw. As a result the handle tended to be a sharper angle.
Sawhandle pistols are a good example of this, although they are rare.
Then of course you have ball butt pistols, also sometimes called puffers. They have a large ball on the end of the handle, the purpose of which was so you could use the pistol more effectively as a club.
Everything is coming out rough. Stunted. Broken into pieces that don’t mesh well.
I want to write. My mind is racing with ideas.
But once pen is put to paper, fingers to keyboard, all thought stops.
The words won’t flow.
They are not balanced.
It’s the worst feeling, to have an idea and not be able to express it.
To be stuck with empty pages. Shattered sentences. Incomplete thoughts.
To have to just admit defeat.
To have to wait until it passes.
I try not to force it. Forcing only creates things I can’t be proud of.
I want to sway and flow like I usually do.
I want my words back.
I want to break through this block.
When pen hits paper, I want to express the ideas that are waiting to burst out of me.
Her fingertips brush against his cheek while he sleeps. He’s cold to the touch. She crosses her hands in her lap and waits.
The watch on her wrist is counting down the seconds.
"Just a bit more." She whispers to the empty room.
His eyes are open but are focused on the ceiling. He can’t hear her. At least not yet. The last second on her watch ticks by, all zeros now glowing on the little screen. She smiles and rests a hand on his forehead.
His eyes widen as she comes into view now. The fear is obvious to her, it’s the same fear she’s seen countless times before.
"It’s alright," she gently caresses his cheek, "Shhhh…not much longer now."
He looks confused. But then he gets it, he knows his suffering has ended. She will take him away now and he’ll be done with this place. As the last light leaves his eyes a man much fuller in the face than him sits in the seat beside her.
"Where are we going?" he asks tentatively.
"Where ever you please. This is the start of a new beginning, you can make of it what you wish."
He smiles, “I don’t feel so sick anymore.”
"And you never will again."
She can’t feel the flames that are lapping at her as she carries the small child close to her chest.
She can see the doorway only a few feet ahead and runs for it. They’re out in the open, sirens and lights are everywhere, a fireman helps her and the child away from the burning building.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he leads her to the nearby ambulance but she collapses. The pain starts to come in waves and she begins to scream. Dammit, she was hoping she could hold it off longer, keep the pain away until they could get her to the hospital but here it is. She can feel the burns all over her body getting their message to her brain, telling her she is hurt and needs assistance.
The fireman lifts her into his arms and hands her over to the nurses. He watches the ambulance drive off in awe. The girl had just ran into the burning building once she heard there was a child still inside. She had looked like something out of hell when she emerged; her clothes were on fire in spots, her skin blistered all over, her hair charred at their ends.
(The girl who feels no pain)
The gown that she wore, it was the most beautiful shade of blue. Darker than her eyes but lighter than the sea, something that laid against her skin like it was meant to be a part of her. Such silken glory wrapping in the just right way around her hips and her shoulders creating an image of pure grace and sophistication, sophistication that was not feigned but so natural it was almost too much to witness without wanting to take to your knee and giver her everything that you knew she deserved.
Oh it was the perfect shade of blue for her, so perfect that anyone else would look cheap in it, uncultured, unable to capture it’s wonder like she could. It was the most beautiful shade of blue, and she was the most beautiful I had ever seen her in it.
Depression is not always dark.
At times it is grey and cloudy.
At others it is restless and unsettling.
It is not sadness that plagues my heart
at least not sadness alone.
It is anger, loneliness, aggravation, fear, apathy, all these feelings at once, constantly changing, but never leaving me, trying to occupy a space that just can’t seem to contain them, a space that threatens to shatter and become shards so sharp they’ll cut me open and leave nothing recognizably whole at any instant.
Depression is not just darkness.
It is grey.
It is unpredictable and unwanted.
A rush of emotions that are so uncontrollable
they become neutral.