Golly, that felt good

1
My schedule has been consumed of late by things not even obliquely related to punching holes in paper from afar behind a grin. Afar is relative. 15 yards with the Springer and a big handful of random ammo (spoiler: it ate 'em all) and an hour. The grin is real.

Now, I'd dry fired on snap caps quite a bit in the dim darkness of wtf time is it while everyone deeps the sleep of babes, a light switch for my target. My anticipation was high as I checked in and so on, stuffed in my foamies, donned my ears, inserted my glasses and floated through the double door front between the store and the range. Lane 12.

The cardboard rectangle looked like someone had pattern tested a goose gun on it, so I taped the target in the upper right where there was a bit left. I ran it out to 15 yards. Dang. A fur piece, as they say. The Springer by now is really familiar in my hand, those three of you know who've followed the year long saga of this .45, smooth, like a computer scientist's handshake, a bit prickly, and the perfect size for me. Left hand in my back pocket I have my right thumb straight along, not hook gripped around. Hold it with my ring finger stronger, like the Vaquero. My archery has strengthened my shooting grip, so the pistol came up easily, Russian style. Sort of dim in that range, like a night time living room. Squeezed it. Stopped. Slicked on the safety with an upsweep of the thumb. Clicked the safety off with the down hook. Lowered the gun. Easy up and slow. Stop and squeeze. Winchester orange is like the inside of a pumpkin. Golly that felt good.

CDFingers
Crazy cat peekin' through a lace bandana
like a one-eyed Cheshire, like a diamond-eyed Jack

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