I’m on the cusp of publishing my latest novel, initially as an e-book and then, soon after, in good old-fashioned paperback format (assuming I can get a reasonable price for a short print run). Shooting at Strangers is a dramatic story that follows a survivor of a terrorist attack in Manchester city centre; her attempts to come to terms with what happened, and her growing realisation of the significance of her own role in the events that eventually led to the tragedy.

At times I found myself wondering why I’d chosen to immerse myself in such a traumatic subject matter – to delve into such a dark side of human nature. On the other hand, it’s so easy to just condemn people who commit these atrocities as evil, and then walk away – that doesn’t help us, as a society, find a way to stop future atrocities. In this, as in so much else in society, understanding is everything.

While writing the book, I came to realise the story has a character that goes almost unseen, and yet is one of the most important. A character that is culpable for what happened and yet, at the same time, devoid of responsibility. That character is the assault rifle that’s used in the attack. Call me weird if you like (you won’t be the first!) but I was moved to write a little poem about it. Here goes…

Why do you fear me?
I am inert;
Alone, unassisted, I cannot hurt
Anyone; anything.
I cannot wound, nor kill;
I lack the means, I lack the will

Bringing about destruction is my only use,
But it’s for people, not me, to make excuse;
To justify the cause and effect
For which I myself reject all accusations of blame.
I have but one purpose, it is true,
But my function was devised by you;
Or, at least, by your kind;
My mission was defined by humans,
Of which I am not one;
I have no life; I’m just a gun.

And yet, subservient to human will,
I’ve raised a war cry loud and shrill,
And firmly held by grubby hands,
I’ve left bodies lying silent and still
In many sorely troubled lands;
Syria, Iran; Afghanistan.

I’ve fallen in battle too;
Acquired many knocks and scrapes.
My butt is stained dark with blood,
My metal parts are scratched and scarred.
My finely tuned tolerances are much diminished,
But don’t for one moment imagine I’m finished;
I was built to last, and I’m not ready to be decommissioned.
I’m in demand; much sought after
By fighters who need no permission
To pursue their cause, and beware, because,
Their land, their lives, having been destroyed by proxy,
They plan, in revenge, to come for yours…

text, poem & gun image © graham wright 2024