Sam found the shotgun under the stairs. His 12-gauge Remington pump, a classic with its clean lines and walnut stock.
His father had preferred semi-automatics.

His father was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call. He trained Black Labs, too, and was a good man to have with you on a hunt.

Sam opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger. He decided to clean the Remington and sell it.

The last shot his father took was with a Glock into the roof of his own mouth.

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Sam found the shotgun where he’d left it. A 12-gauge Remington pump, his favorite, a classic gun, really, with its clean line and walnut stock. His father had preferred an automatic.

The old man was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call as sweet as anybody. That and the Labs he trained made him a good man to have with you on a hunt. Not so good other times. Jesus, no!

Sam felt the usual jumble of emotions. He opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger.

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I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity.