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Shooter

by: Jason Spidle

He began to dwell on hundredths of a second passed and accumulated unused instead of firing his pistol. Each step a moment of a moment. Release, aim, fire, return. The heat of the gun aligned along his femur would expel and absorb into his jeans, into his skin. He could draw and shoot with exceptional accuracy from up to twenty feet away from a target in two one hundredths of a second. This left ninety-eight one hundredths of a second to undertake any number of other tasks but more often than not, those moments would peel away into nothing, all history lost the instant it was conceived and forgotten. And is it possible? And was it thought? And are there truly drips and tendrils slinking from the abyss as if to catch hold of something if they cease to exist with such immediacy? He would wonder where time goes when it is spent and of the enormity of his condition, the almost infinite fractal seconds that made as if to start something unexpected, to bloom into circles becoming, impregnating in their outward expansion. The buildings would crumble under the weight of its density but these suggestions occurred erratically, leaving him breathless each time.