Useless blog is not so useless. (Everyone) · 9:28am Jul 23rd, 2012
So I've decided not to use my blog section as a blog section. Instead, I'm going to post short stories I write that aren't about ponies here, since I can't post them as regular stories. Read them if you'd like, I don't really mind either way. I will just be writing these to write them. Here is the first, maybe the last, I don't know if I'll make more. I call it "Sniper".
I prone out on the ground, lying down on the flattest spot I can find. I set a long, black case down beside me, along with a few smaller boxes. I open the case. A matte black DSR Precision DSR-1 lies inside, nestled within the felt padding of the case. I grab the rifle by the handguard, pulling it out of its place in the case carefully. I grab the stock with my other hand, spinning the weapon so that the barrel faces away from me on the ground. I lay it on its left side so the bolt is not laid upon.
I look back into the case, reaching out with my right hand. I pull out the next object within the container, a bipod. Utilizing the extensive rail system on the front of the DSR-1, I slide the bipod onto the Picatinny rails, then begin hand-tightening the screws. Once they are as tight as I can make them, I grab a small flathead screwdriver out of the case, and make sure they are fitted snugly. Setting the screwdriver down alongside the weapon, I grab the next item, a Leupold 4-12 zoom rifle scope. Much like the bipod, I attach it by hand, then tighten its screws using the tool.
I grab the pistol grip of the weapon, then lift my hand up, tilting the gun forward on its bipod. I tap the release button on the rear end of the bullpup rifle, ejecting the magazine that was locked into place behind the grip. I set the DSR-1 down again, focusing on the magazine I hold in my left hand. WIth my right, I reach over and open one of the few smaller boxes I have brought with me. Their lids bear the label Lapua. I slide my fingers between the lid and the box, prying it open. The reddish jackets of ten .338 Lapua Magnum bullets reflect some of the afternoon sunlight. I pull the first out with my fingertips, then roll it around in my hand. It feels everything that it is, powerful and deadly. I use my thumb and forefinger to slide it into place in the magazine I hold in my hand.
Three rounds later, the spring in the magazine is fully compacted. I again grip onto the pistol grip of the gun, placing the stock against my shoulder. I bring the magazine up to the portion of the weapon between my hand and shoulder, carefully inserting it into the rifle. I push up until I hear the click of the magazine being locked into the weapon. I place my left hand just between the end of the scope and the cheekrest, where the side of my face comes to rest against the DSR-1.
I begin sighting in the scope on my target, which is exactly seven hundred meters away upon my measurement. I know the rifle well enough to know its drop, and slowly begin twisting the elevation dial on the scope with the first two fingers of my left hand. Click...click...click...click. There is no wind today, a fact I am grateful of. My focus moves from the adjustment dials on the top and right side of the rifle scope to the lens of the scope. I look downrange with both eyes open, then shut my left eye, delivering all of my focus to the magnified sight picture.
My target comes into view, crystal clear at over two thousand feet away. I readjust the buttplate of the stock against my right shoulder, pressing it into me tighter. I move my right hand from the grip to the bolt of the weapon. I grasp it using my thumb, pointer, and middle finger, then lift up, pulling the bolt up around thirty degrees. I slide it back towards my head, feeling the smooth action of the well-made German weapon. The internal hammer cocks back as the bolt comes to a stop a few inches from its starting point. I begin pushing forward, undoing my previous action. As I do, the bolt catches the first of the four rounds in the magazine of the DSR-1, pushing it forwards and out of the magazine, into the airtight chamber. I replace the bolt at its starting position, then move my hand back to the pistol grip, wrapping my fingers around it.
I lightly rest the forefinger of my right hand against the trigger. The center of my crosshairs lies on the center mass of my distant target. I begin slowly commanding my diaphragm to take in air, to fill my lungs with oxygen. Once I have fully filled them, I release the carbon dioxide waste through my nose until there is nothing left within my lungs. I wait, listening and focusing through the scope of my rifle. My heartbeat sounds distant and near-silent.
Tha-thump...tha-thump...tha-thump...
I pull my finger towards me steadily, applying just over three pounds of pressure to the metal trigger.
The trigger mechanism immediately begins working, redistributing the force of my pull in various directions until finally pulling the release on the hammer. The hammer snaps forward, and a small, pointed tip on its end makes contact with a small, silver circle on the bottom of the cartridge in the chamber. The force at which this piece of metal is impacted causes enough friction inside the casing to ignite the gunpowder it holds.
An explosion occurs. The amount of gunpowder packed inside the round creates an expansion of gas and plasma that is enough to force the bullet, .338 inches in diameter, forward and out of the cartridge. The gases propel the bullet, now a projectile, along a twenty-six inch tube known as a barrel. The barrel has undergone a process known as "rifling", which puts spiraling grooves along the length of it. These grooves guide the bullet along and spin it as it traverses the barrel. The spin allows the bullet to travel much farther by resisting gravity and air pushing against it, similar to how a Frisbee works.
The bullet exits the barrel, followed by the gases that propelled it out. It now travels at speeds exceeding three thousand feet per second, over two thousand miles per hour. At almost Mach Three, the bullet well exceeds the speed of sound and is supersonic. Its spinning motion and immense speed carry it in a predictable arc that is determined based upon the size and shape of the bullet.
Covering seven hundred meters in two ten-thousandths of a second, the .338 Lapua Magnum bullet makes contact with its target. The target is torn apart by over six thousand Joules of energy. The bullet shreds through, delivering most of, but not all of its force directly to the target. It leaves an entry wound exactly three-hundred-thirty-eighths of an inch in size, and an exit wound many times larger. The bullet leaves the target, covered in and followed by a trail of dense, red liquid.
A flash of light appears before my eyes for only a fraction of a second, visible in the bottom of my scope. Gas bursts out the front of the barrel and out the sides of the muzzle brake, which redirects the gases to reduce felt recoil. Unlike the bullet, the gases are not streamlined enough to be supersonic; they vibrate the air in front of and around me, generating a loud crack that echoes through the forest ahead of me for miles. The target would not have enough time to hear the shockwave created by the firing of the weapon, as the bullet is around three times faster than the speed of sound. The nature of explosions causes them to disperse energy in all directions; because of the way the gun is designed, most of that force and nearly all of the gas created by the explosion is thrust forward, allowed to escape the weapon. The force generated in all other directions is usually sent directly backwards, as goes Newton's Third Law of every action having an equal and opposite reaction, as force and motion goes. The stock of the DSR-1 shoves hard into my shoulder and kicks upwards a short distance.
I recover my view on my target just in time to see a spray of red erupt from it through the scope. Shrapnel from it flies in all directions, and it seems to literally explode. Nearby trees and the ground below it are splatter-painted with red liquid.
A can of tomato soup flies off of its perch, seven hundred meters away, bursting open from the impact of the bullet and spraying condensed tomato paste and other ingredients everywhere. The bottom half of the aluminum can bounces around on the ground under a setup of wooden sawhorses and various canned goods.
I smile to myself, then rack the bolt up and back, sending a smoking cartridge spinning out of the chamber and replacing it with a new one, sighting in on my next target.
-sees notification-
three things
-not about ponies
-read it anyways
-it was awesome.
still awesome
242886 Thanks, I appreciate it.
Can't find a way to work scenarios like this into pony stories, not in a way that would make for a good story, at least. Figured they'd look nice on my user page. :3