Cissie King Jones - MemoriesMore Like This
My hand glides along the stone walls of the shooting range, finding the light switch and flipping it on. There's a moment's hesitation before the large, glaring lights flick on, row by row, down the lanes to finally illuminate the targets at the far end of the room - the length of the gymnasium - one hundred meters away, measured out with marks along the floor every ten meters. It is silent except for the slight hum of the electricity through the lights.
My footsteps upon the wood flooring accompanies the hum to a point, when I stop in the middle aisle and set down my box of fifty arrows. My eyes are fixed upon the targets. With my eyesight, I see every detail of the piece of paper tacked up upon the styrofoam block in front of me. The brand name of the target's maker read as easily as if it were just an arm's length away, the slightly lifted corner curling in the humidity, the shadows of the fourfold it had been in before flattene