My breathing is stunted as I lie twisted in knots. My body is used as a symbol of peace. Little do the public know, that by making this sculpture of unity, a life has been damaged. Too damaged. I flash back to when I was created. The discarded lumps of sculptures that were not good enough. I shudder, thinking back to my innocence before I saw the lumps being thrown into an incinerator. Destroyed. Murdered. People stare at my husk of a body, remarking about the craftsmanship. However, they don't see the real me. They don't see the tortured soul.
The story goes of a great gun shootout in 1857, many lives were lost, and even more were injured. It's described as the 'Great World Shootout', or basically just a cowboy shootout, but call it what you want. Anyway, this one man had enough and decided he was going to put an end to it. He stood on a podium and ranted for hours on end until it finally got through. It was declared that a symbol to be made. A gun in a knot.
To this day, a gun is there to remind everyone, war isn't good.
Suddenly, the deafening sound of a car horn flooded my ears. We were on the motor way travelling to a secret location for Daddy’s work. I turned around and strained my eyes to see what all the fuss was about. I could make out the menacing silhouette of a gun. It seemed to be moving forward! The sound of bullets now filled the air. With a screech of brakes, Dad leapt out of the car and ripped off his shirt only to reveal his ‘Dad Man’ costume. Muscles bulging, he tied a knot in the barrel of the gun. Saved!
The wild west 1884 a country of mayhem and robbery where all of the towns were stripped empty of goods except for one.
A small town, Western Hills, famous for the massive hills that lay near. It was very peaceful but all that was going to change. Western Hills heard all the news about the gangs' exploits, so they decided to build a massive gun to fend off the robbers and its was serving its purpose until one of the gangs stole the gun, loaded ammunition and fired. Amazingly the village survived but the gun had folded at the end.
My breathing is stunted as I lie twisted in knots. My body is used as a symbol of peace. Little do the public know, that by making this sculpture of unity, a life has been damaged. Too damaged. I flash back to when I was created. The discarded lumps of sculptures that were not good enough. I shudder, thinking back to my innocence before I saw the lumps being thrown into an incinerator. Destroyed. Murdered. People stare at my husk of a body, remarking about the craftsmanship. However, they don't see the real me. They don't see the tortured soul. 
