Gunslinger Serenade

He rode into town on a Saturday and by Sabbath the town went silent; dead silent if ya catch my meanin’. He didn’t leave nobody alive, the lowlife gamblers, the chinks, the cunts, nobody; even the Doc and preacherman got it in the end. A weird fella, with a nasty streak, meaner than the clap; so much as look at him wrong and he’d just as soon shoot ya than leave ya livin’. My only advice, you see this fucker comin’, you don’t even pack, you just take what you got on ya, jump on the nearest horse and ride hard as fuck toward the sunset. And trust me, you can’t miss this sumbitch; got a faggot tongue, always speakin’ in some kinda verse and askin’:

Headin’ to Refrain
Might I ask the way?

I never heard of no Refrain, but whatever’s there, I pity ’em real good. This fucker got a mad-on like I never seen, and should he ever get there, ain’t nothin’, God almight, chink pagan gods, nothing gonna save ’em.
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The Emptiness of the Frog

She sat in the empty playground, her knees carelessly mashed together, and rocked back and forth in the middle swing. One hand pursed her short, plaid uniform skirt between her thighs while the other expertly balanced a cigarette between two fingers. Thin geysers of filtered carbon monoxide, rat poison and whatever else could kill her poured from her nostrils.

Darren, her boyfriend sat several yards away from her, on his beat-up Vespa, bored out of his mind; he stared blankly at the crowded grey sky, full of clouds, steel mill blow-off and other industrial machinations. He exhaled sharply.

She didn’t give a shit about Darren, he could wait. Her brother couldn’t. There was no way he would understand. He might not still. So, she waited, sucking calmly on her vice, blowing out smoke and rocked slowly while her boyfriend stared impatiently up at the soulless fog and chomped on his bottom lip.

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Her name was Summer but her stage name was Spring, not to be funny but because it was her favorite season. Up to a week ago she had been employed at the Candy Bar, working lunches Monday through Thursday. She didn’t particularly enjoy the work and it showed in her performance, which was why she worked lunches, Monday through Thursday.

A week ago was when I met her, at first briefly as she drunkenly stumbled into the motel room next to mine, her sweaty companion winking a lewd wink my way as he followed her in. Her sweaty companion had not been there before, leading me to believe their use of the room would be measured in the single digit hours.

I was mistaken.

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A Heartsick Archer

There was no sand to move between her toes. Her hips swayed just as the alcohol told her. She fought the urge to jump as the cold water washed over her bare feet. A red dress shined with the inexplicable movements of a seductress that had become the apple of every man’s eye. Her movements only followed in harmony with the bounding moonlight from the dying wake.

A small motor died in the distance and another made its claim. The smugglers made no efforts to hind anymore; a whistle off the river’s edge blew. Drunk as she was, she gave the admirers no attention and she walked idly on. The concrete scraped against the bottom of her soft feet, a pair of red heels dangled in her left hand. Again, the water washed over her feet.

Miniscule are the waves from the passing boats. Rolling over her ankles as she walked, the man came into view. His trench coat moved with the light wind that also pushed her hair toward the water. She could see a strange thing jutting out just past his leg. “It’s done then?”

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The Seaking

San Diego, CA.

The boy sat at the edge of the pool, his frail, finger-like toes grabbed and whipped up the serene, pearl-skinned surf into a series of choppy peaks. The sun glinted across the chlorine valleys under the boy’s jubilant stirring, reflected a marbled sunrise like a series of veins under the water that ran up the boys leg, fed his heart. It beat faster, harder. The boy smiled wide across his rosy cheeks; his teeth sparkled like a school of sturgeon. A late bloomer, he was finally going to learn to swim after managing to stay healthy the whole summer. Dad promised.

The parents watched their happy boy from their terra-cotta veranda, always near the water whenever he could be. This summer was a good one for them and Arthur. Diagnosed, or not, rather, with an unknown degenerative disease their boy had always been too sick for anything; home-schooled, weeks at a time hooked up to strange machines, and of course, unable to swim no matter how much it pained him.

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Frequency (Story And A New Tag)

After the cut you’ll see a small bit of a story I started to fiddle around with a few years back. It’s not much, just a concept that came to mind and got churned out and will probably never be revisited again. With the posting of it, I’ve created a new tag others can play with: “False Start“. Feel free to put in any of your little thoughts or ideas or stories that just never took off or got finished. It’s always neat to see what folks have played with over time.

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