Cordite.

     And so he bought a gun and learned to use it; he told himself it was for the protection of his family and their possessions. He began to love its cold barrel and perfect mechanism. When he saw other guns on television and in movies he thought of his own and held it in his mind. He had read all the literature and was careful to keep his gun clean and away from the kids. Sometimes he would wake up in the night in a panic, chasing the cat down the stairs before him, rousing it from sleep on its favourite stair, because he thought the children had taken the gun out from its locked box under the stairs. The cat would begin to run circles around his legs, purring and chirping and with clammy hands he would stroke the molting animal, grab it, toss it into the kitchen, then frantically fumble the small key, held on a silver chain around his neck, into the lock and reveal the still sleeping gun, a silent silver threat, still in its bed. Something he could wield that would keep him and his family safe from any malice that might try to enter into their lives. After taking the gun, holding it, whispering its name, Colt King Cobra, he would return to bed, his hand still forming a straight-thumbs grip and think of the firing range. But there was no sweet sleep during the night. He was aware of himself and could never forget his fidgeting body or fearful thoughts. Where they lived in Utah all the tears turned to salt and made a flat he wandered upon at night. He remained perched on his consciousness like a dirty yellow parrot, never detached and drifting into the soft tunnels of slumber, and so he never really fell asleep.