…and then I saw it. The shiny, copper barrel, the smooth black trigger, a box of gleaming, golden shells lay on the counter, right next to it. From my knowledge and wonderful eyesight, both inherited from my dad, I saw that the shells were 14-calibers. Mrs. Hagberg’s voice faded, and all I wanted to do was grab that shotgun and shoot a couple of birds, or maybe a deer, if I could go take it to the forest.
Then my dad and Mr. Hagberg came downstairs, and told us to come and see the beautiful birdhouse they had built. Luckily for me, Mr. Hagberg told me I could stay downstairs and look around the house, maybe look into Mrs. Hagberg’s room of collectibles. I smiled, curtsied, and clasped my hands, waiting for the four pairs of footsteps to fade completely. The moment they did, I swept silently over to the counter, and stuffed the shells into a pocket of my sweater.
the details of your writings are awesome! I can picture the events unfolding in my mind as if I was standing there! good job!
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