text: Hi, This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Before I write any more, I wanted to share the first 500 words to see if I'm on the right lines or if I'm making some kind of cardinal sins I'm unaware of? What do you think? Feedback appreciated. Albert Pearson kept a gun, fully loaded, in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. The top drawer was for his socks - each one bunched together with its counterpart, a system designed to ensure no sock could exist without a partner and all but eliminating the possibility of any garment going rogue and hiding at the back, unused for years. The middle drawer were for boxer shorts, each folded neatly, each a carbon copy of the last, dark navy with an elasticated waist. The bottom drawer was for his gun. His wife, to the surprise of many, was very much in favour of the gun. Other folk had their own particular opinions on storing a loaded firearm in an easily accessible place, but upon hearing their concerns she would move to quash them with a well versed speech about “keeping the family safe” and how there’s “plenty of weirdos and nutters about”, before closing with a “you can’t be too careful” for good measure. “What sort of gun is it?” someone might ask her, for the politeness of continuing conversation more than any real curiosity. “One that fires bullets” was her all too well-rehearsed riposte. There was no malice in this reply, her ignorance was not feigned for the pretence of wit. Rather, she genuinely didn’t know. What did it matter if it was a Smith and Wesson, or a Glock and Spiel, or an AK47, or whatever, it didn’t make any difference. It fired bullets that shot people, that was the only thing she needed it to be able to do, and so long as it did that, the rest really didn’t matter. Mr Pearson forbade his wife from talking about the gun. “This right here” he said, the handle of the gun clenched tightly around his bony fingers, “this is between you and me. Ain’t nobody else what needs to know about it. Cause if other people knows we got this, they’ll be thinking we’re trouble. But we’re not trouble, we’re just preparing in case there’s trouble. And the more people what think there might be trouble, the more chance of there being trouble in the first place, you understand?” She nodded her head, to disguise the fact that she quite plainly did not understand. Rather than heed her husband’s advice, convoluted as it may have presented itself, she decided instead to do entirely the opposite, regaling near strangers with levels of braggadocio usually reserved for when parents talk about the pseudo-accomplishments of their kin. “Well Martin’s doing great, he’s got a big job at one of those financial institutions, and we’re so proud of Lauren for getting into university, and did I tell you about the gun scaring off that suspicious looking man lurking around our bins the other night?” Neither Mr Pearson nor his wife knew exactly how long they’d had the gun. It was years, that much is certain, if not the exact number. Long enough that you can’t immediately recall its purchase. If time allowed, of course, one would be able to sit down and through a process of pairing significant dates and anniversaries to the timeline of purchase, be able to deduce roughly when the gun came into their possession. But it seemed of little importance; the various particulars of who did what and when seemed to have little bearing on the outcome, that Albert Pearson and his wife owned a gun.