Interrupted reveries. The man felt the dust blowing off the shelves of his mind. Little akashic records with their books all overturned. He found himself again sitting, slumped ever so slightly, cradling a revolver in his hands. Old, now. Funny- he’d always assumed that the tools he bought would age much better than he. Instead he saw hairline scratches, a beginning of a pit here or there from those months he had forgotten he’d even owned a piece. And yet there he sat, older really on the inside than out. Tired, from the grind.
“Dad,” the man’s son’s voice rang. Dad looked up, for a time he almost thought he could see his boy’s voice echoing through the falling leaves of the trees. “Dad, what’re you doing?”
“Thinking, Kiddo.”
“You do that a lot.“
“Yeah I do…”
“Are we gonna shoot now?”
“Ayuh.”
Kiddo looked on passively. Dad wasn’t…
The Tactical Hermit 
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