From the Desk of the Editor;
Hello and welcome to another exciting edition of Larks Fiction Magazine. In this issue we are bringing out the big guns with lawmen, aliens, and death--oh my!
To celebrate the upcoming Ghoul season make sure to look for our upcoming publications coming to Amazon and Smashwords.
The new headquarters are coming along. Luck decided to let me escape the under-croft unscathed except for a few bruises and ten pounds of dust. Check out all the newest updates at http://thefoxhouse.tumblr.com/
Yours,
Daniel J. Pool
LFM Editor
No Sign Before
By Deng Xiang
Abstruse harbingers seep along your bed sheets
A cordial welcome seems
to be in disguise for tears;
Your diaries, and anything in between
That you encounter. Nothing seems to point
To you
wanting to terminate your soul.
Try as I might, I could not infer
any premonitions
Of your startling death. You were your usual self,
Ebullient and optimistic in everything you do,
But there are feelings cloaked
Beneath your facade.
You wore a ghostly mask, unidentified.
Such a bewildering loss makes this truer-
That not every cloud has a silver lining,
And bereavement impales me
About the Poet:
Deng Xiang speaks, writes articles, poems and stories while sharing
his passion for all things erudite and salient. Mainly, his subsistence
comprises of highbrow literature from chemistry to pure mathematics.
His appetite for knowledge never ceases, even if he got an
accomplishment worth showing off.
Fox House Jungle
Photo by Katelin Pool
The Stoning of Tityos
By Simon Jones
Only when my palms were stained with his blood did I realize what had happened.
The
knife, made for whittling and skinning small game, was plunged deep
into his chest. The body swelled once – a deep, horrible inhale of
oxygen before the slow release. Then it was over.
I
didn’t look into his eyes. I didn’t have to see them to know what I’d
done. One short motion – my right arm wrenching the weapon into his
heart – and it was finished.
It
had been years since I’d killed a man, but even then never like this.
It had always been for the Community. For peace. Good crushing evil.
This was something else. I didn’t even know his name.
I had been attacked, certainly. But I immediately questioned whether such a deadly reaction had been warranted.
“Coward,” he
had spat, the word conjuring a vile rage in the pit of my stomach
before he darted towards me, a sharpened rock gripped tightly in his
right hand.
The
sticky crimson was warm on my hands now and I began to feel the ache in
my bones again. The winter chill. How long had I been here? I looked
around, concerned that the sun was just four fingers from the horizon. I
didn’t have much time. The Tree Folk would likely come searching for
their kinsperson. And Tom would be on his way.
The
body was heavier than I expected. The fact that he was such a fat
bastard didn’t help matters, but once I reached the water his weight
seemed to evaporate. I was worried that the corpse wouldn’t float, but
the stream did most of the work for me. I kept one hand on his chest,
just below the wound, my eyes scanning the banks for any sign of my
deputy.
The
crashing roar of Pillaging Falls greeted my ears first and I let the
stream take my attacker’s body over its edge and into the abyss. It
wouldn’t be long before I joined him there.
Despite
the inevitable, I still felt a pang of guilt for his death. Had I not
snuffed out his life, he would have doubtless ended mine. But that did
not ease my burden. I had sworn to protect him – it was my duty. I
sighed and reminded myself that soon it wouldn’t matter.
The
Falls were growing stronger by the time I reached its edge. The current
was powerful, but my heavy boots sank deep into the loose earth below
and kept me firmly planted. The sun would kiss the horizon in less than
an hour. I took it to be a sign, of sorts, counting down my last moments
in this place. I began to think about Emma and Flynn. Then Tom called
out for me.
“Sheriff!”
The young man, hardly out of his teens, came bounding out of the forest
and alongside the western bank. His voice held no fear. Why should it?
He had met me here every sunset for the last fortnight.
I sighed, as if I had not expected him to reach me in time.
“Tom,”
I replied, repeating the same words I had spoken to my deputy every
night for the past two weeks. “You can’t stop this. Not tonight.”
When he didn’t reply, I turned my head to see a lopsided grin on his face. “I think I can, Sheriff.”
I didn’t know why he was smirking like a fool, but whatever the reason I wouldn’t be here to find out.
“This time it’s different, Tom,” I said. “Something happened. Something I can’t—”
“I know. Something did happen. Something you never believed we could do.”
The sheer excitement in his voice made me freeze. It couldn’t be. Not now. Not when the end was but a footstep away.
“Don’t lie to me.” There was viciousness in my words. “I swear, if you’re lying to me—”
“If I’m lying,” he said calmly. “I won’t stop you from jumping next time.”
Something in the way he said it made me believe him. “Tityos?”
Tom
nodded. “We got him, Sheriff. He put up a fight, worked some of your
boys over. But we got him.” The chill night air made my body quiver. I
hadn’t brought a change of clothes.
#
“You were really going to do it, weren’t you?” Tom asked once I was out of the stream. “You were going to jump?”
I
didn’t reply. My hands were shivering as I rubbed them up and down both
sides of my chest, trying desperately to ignite some warmth back into
my bones.
Despite
the pain, there was a burning desire deep inside me – something I had
been waiting months to feel. With each passing step I was getting closer
to the man who had murdered my sister and nephew. Flynn, the youngling,
was forced to watch his own mother torn limb from limb before being put
out of his own misery. Tityos wouldn’t be so fortunate tonight.
He
came in the darkness. At first we thought it was just a group of
hoodlums, kidnapping villagers in the hope of gleaning some ransom from
their wealthy families. We didn’t have any reason to believe it could be
something more sinister.
The
first body was discovered near the back of Frank’s Tavern. Half of it,
at least. The other half was never found. Tom thought it might have been
an animal, but I’d never heard of a beast that could saw a man so
perfectly in two.
When
children started to go missing, and then entire families, the villagers
lost faith in the law. I was their Sheriff, but I couldn’t even give
them a name, let alone a prisoner. The mumblings from the Tree Folk
began to grow louder in the village. People were starting to believe
those mad tales.
Eventually,
after almost a month of terror, he came in the daylight. Tom and I had
enforced a strict curfew on the Community, and since then no one else
had gone missing. But he wasn’t satisfied with what he had already done.
He came during the day and took Emma and Flynn. He knew who I was and
he took them to lure me out. He knew who I was, I was certain of it.
Two
weeks ago I found their bodies – what was left of them. Limbs, organs,
entrails. They’d been strewn about the house deliberately. Little Flynn
and my sister. That night I went to the Falls, and every night since.
“Sheriff!
Don’t you turn away from me!” I looked up and winced at the setting
sun. Soon my eyes settled on a dusty old man with a mop of white hair
and thick beard flowing past his shoulders. Old Reg. One of the Tree
Folk. Trouble.
Tom saw him coming but could do nothing to stop the tirade of abuse he began to spout.
“You
have a black soul, Sheriff,” Old Reg shouted. “The others may turn away
from it but I can see through you.” I continued walking but he followed
beside, close enough that I could smell his rancid breath. “You’re as
much to blame for the murders he commits.”
“Easy
there, old timer,” Tom started to say, but I motioned for him that it
was okay. Reg had lost his daughter and three grandchildren to Tityos.
My job meant that I was sworn to protect them, and I had failed. The
least I could do was listen to him.
“We
warned you about him,” he continued. “You heard the stories from your
own mother’s mouth. You knew he was still out there. Squatting in the
desert, sucking all the life out of that god-forsaken place. You knew
he’d be thirsty for more before long. But you wouldn’t listen, you
stubborn bastard!”
As
the forest began to thin out, I could see the faint outline of
torchlight in the distance. We were coming up on the village and I knew
most of the Community would be heading for the Old Killing Fields – that
arid field of dust and death, where executions played out like the
times of long ago.
“My
daughter.” Old Reg stopped following and began to sob. “My little girl
and her babies too.” I thought about turning around but didn’t even have
the courage to do that. My conscience berated me but my feet continued
to whisk me away from the scene.
As
we came upon the last line of oak trees leading into the village, I
heard the old hermit speak one final time. “You knew he was out there.
You knew and you didn’t listen. Now it’s on you, Sheriff. The blood of
my family is on your hands!”
Tom
put a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezed twice. “Don’t let that crazy
old fool get to you. He’s as mad as the rest of the folk living in the
forest.”
“He lost his child,” I said quietly. “He has a right to grieve.”
Tom
just shook his head as the blue lights of Reston Village fell upon our
faces. “If he wants to grieve, he can do it tonight with the Community.
Put that withered old arm of his to good use.”
I simply nodded. The excited hoots and howls of my townsfolk were now ringing loudly in my ears.
#
By
the time we reached the Old Killing Fields, the sun was only half a
finger from the horizon. Muted streaks of burnt orange and blood red
stained the sky as if resigning itself to what was about to occur. By
the size of the crowd, I imagined all of the Community and most of the
Tree Folk had come to see Tityos’s end – and partake in it.
One
of the villagers on the outskirts of the congregation saw me and Tom
and quickly called out for the crowd to disperse so that we could reach
its centre. Some smiled as I walked past, perhaps holding onto the hope
that I was the one responsible for the murderer’s capture – that their
Sheriff did indeed still have a fleck of courage left. Most, however,
either lowered their eyes or mumbled curses of “coward” and “shameful”
under their breath. I didn’t give them any response, but I could sense
Tom bristling.
As
we came upon the beast the Tree Folk had named Tityos, darkness had
consumed the Old Killing Fields. Only the orange of torchlight now lit
the dusty plain, and I began to feel the familiar ache of fear. I took
one breath, another, before looking upon his face.
I almost didn’t recognise him.
He
looked far different from the night I had found Emma and Flynn. In the
darkness he had sped through the streets like a leopard, but I would
have staked my life that he was at least nine foot tall that evening,
and a shade of blue, not grey. His six limbs were slumped on the ground,
several clearly broken, and some with bones that had pierced his pallid
skin. His face, contorted by the beatings Tom and his crew had no doubt
inflicted upon him, showed one eye fused entirely shut. The other,
though, stared straight back, and I knew at once that he remembered me.
I
stood, staring into his face – an alien thing I had only heard in
unbelievable tales before this summer. Tales my father had scared me
with as a child. I now looked upon the truth and was determined to see
inside, to see what sort of callous, vile soul – if any – could linger
within.
He
denied me. After only a second, he lowered his head and released a cry
so horrible I felt as if my legs would give out. That deep keening
filled with fear and sorrow echoed into the night for far longer than
any human cry could. Unconsciously, I took a step forward. He recoiled
at the motion, his broken limbs sweeping back into themselves as far as
was possible. He let out small gasps of pain as a dull, deep blue liquid
began to flow freely from freshly broken scabs. I stopped, raised my
palms instinctively and retreated.
This was not what I had expected.
“It’s
time,” Tom whispered in my ear before nodding to one of his men, Robb.
The teenager was carrying a wide shovel, weathered by decades of use,
its formerly sharp edges now curved and harmless.
Robb
kicked the creature’s side, forced him to stand and thrust the shovel
into his hands. “Dig,” he ordered, then kicked him again and mimicked a
digging motion until he was certain Tityos understood.
I
had seen this spectacle a hundred times before, even handed that same
shovel to convicted murderers, rapists and heretics. I had seen men
weep, women scream, young boys cry out in terror as they dug their own
graves. Some weren’t even able to hold the shovel without help. Others
drew out the procedure for as long as they could, hoping against all
sanity that we would show them mercy. I never expected Tityos would be
my last.
It
took the better part of an hour for the creature to shift enough earth
to hold his body. When he was finished, Robb shoved his boot into
Tityos’s back, forcing him into the pit before ordering him to stand
upright. Tom and his men loaded the dirt back into the hole as quickly
as they could, Tityos’s awkward head now the only thing protruding from
the ground.
When
they were done, Tom turned to me and smiled. ‘Now the fun part,’ he
chuckled. I didn’t respond. A sickness, the likes of which I had never
felt before, was eating away at me with a rapid pace. I almost couldn’t
contain the bile threatening to explode from behind my lips. Nothing
made sense. This thing – this beast – had mutilated my own flesh and
blood, terrorised our community for weeks, years, decades. He had
feasted on the marrow of children and yet I could barely hold his gaze. I
saw pure fear in that face. Tears rolled freely from his eye as he
stared back, yet he did not curse or spit. In that moment, he was
nothing but a frightened child.
Tom
placed something heavy in my right hand, smiled at me and nodded. It
was my duty as Sheriff to throw the first stone – to be the first to
crack the skull. The rest would join in soon after. Usually there was a
lottery to determine who would be allowed to throw, but Tityos had
affected so many lives that it was decided everyone would have their
chance. One by one they would propel their missiles at the beast that
had murdered their children, their husbands, their wives. He would know
true pain then. And he would die slowly.
At
that moment, I knew I couldn’t join them. After all that had happened,
after all I had been through, there was nothing I wanted more than leave
that place. When I looked into his eyes I could only see a petrified
child, asking why I was doing this, begging me to stop. There was no
comprehension of why he was here. Why these alien people had captured
him and forced him to dig his own grave. He knew that death was close
but couldn’t understand why. Every single man and woman that had died
here understood they had committed an unforgivable sin. They didn’t want
to die, but they understood the reasons why they must. This creature,
this thing, was simply an animal. He had to die, I knew that. And he
would. But I wouldn’t allow myself to be part of another murder today.
I
let the stone fall from my hand and turned to walk away. The chanting
stopped and the crowd parted, either too stunned or horrified to block
my way. One man shrieked ‘Coward!’ but I was immune to that word now.
Soon there would be one less coward in the world. Tom didn’t try to stop
me this time.
By
the time I reached the village, Tityos was dead. The cheers from the
crowd were sickening but I pressed on, determined to finish what I had
started before sunset.
I
stopped at my home for just a few moments, making sure I would be long
gone before any villagers returned from the Old Killing Fields. Despite
everything, I couldn’t leave without telling Tom why. He deserved that,
at the very least.
I left the brief note under the lamp by my bed. He’d know what it meant.
Emma’s
diary and little Flynn’s drawing book were still under the shelf where I
had kept them. There wasn’t much that was salvageable from the night
they had died, but those two items had somehow remained untainted by
their blood. I intended to return them to their owners.
I
didn’t see Old Reg on my return through the forest and was thankful for
it. Who knew what would have happened had he tried to stop me. I didn’t
allow myself to think about anything other than what I was going to do.
The
night was deep, but the stars lit my path to Pillaging Falls. I’d seen
this sight a thousand times before, but tonight it seemed more magical
than ever. I was calm, at last. Not even the chill of the water affected
me.
Emma
and Flynn sat inside my pocket, close to my heart. The sound of the
Falls crashing into itself surrounded me and I shut my eyes tight. Don’t turn back. I took one step forward into nothingness, and fell for eternity.
The End
About the Author;
Simon Jones is an Australian journalist
who has covered everything from science to sport for over seven years.
His most recent piece of speculative fiction to be accepted for
publishing is "Tourist Regulator" and will be featured in the October
edition of Antipodean SF.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read my work.
Kind regards,
Simon Jones
DUSTY
By Michael Martin
All I can taste is dust. I sure could use a shot, but I need to
keep a clear head. I can ill afford
to screw up, I have it all planned out, to the last detail but I need to be able
to react and handle the unexpected.
No matter how much you go over it, there is always something that does
not go according to plan; that is what they say.
So I wait.
Wait for just the right moment.
Precise timing is crucial if I am going to succeed with my plan and make
a clean getaway. Then there’s the
girl, the girl I’ve always wanted but could never have. Would there be time for her? If I failed, certainly not. I only have one shot at
this.
Still, it sure is dusty. It is in my clothes, my boots, my
saddle. The street, the walkway,
the buildings; it’s even stubbornly clinging to the window panes of the stores
and shops which line the street, giving them a frosted look.
It hangs in the air like a ghost, always present and never sought.
People are lining the street as if they are expecting a show. Eager to bear witness to something they
would never have the courage to do themselves. I don't really mind but I wish there
were not so many. I don't need any
distractions; one false move and I might never recover.
I hate sneaking in town the back way but this time it is
necessary. You don't announce
yourself by riding down Main Street when you come to kill a man in his own
town.
I tie my horse to a nearby post and step up on the
walkway to get a better look; my spurs jingle as they make contact with hard
wood. Strange how easily you become
accustomed to that sound, I hardly ever notice it.
More people have come out of the shops; they are spilling
over into the street now. I hear a
soft clicking sound coming from the crowd, like a gun being cocked but not as
loud. I survey the crowd, but no one is even wearing a gun. I see a brief flash of light, like the
sun reflecting off a pair of glasses or a spectacle. Since I don’t recognize anyone in the
crowd, I determine there is little danger.
A man comes out of the feed store with a bit in his right hand. He does not stop to look around but
quickly mounts his horse and rides away from the crowd. Not everyone is so eager to see a
killing.
His horse kicks up more dust as he heads out of
town. The street is straight and
open, just as I remember it.
Good. No wagons blocking
either end, even better. I may have
to leave in a hurry too.
The sound of footsteps breaks the silence. I turn to see an older woman walking
towards me. Her hair is slightly gray and she is tightly clutching her handbag
as she walks. Traces of her once
handsome features still show through the lines on her face but this arid land
has drained most of her former beauty.
I tip my hat and she gives me a nod as she passes by,
though I think she is just a little too nervous. Does she recognize me? If she does, I might have to speed up my
plans.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man step into the
street from the other side. He
walks slowly, his eyes fixed on me.
I turn to face him but make no other move. His body shows that he's nervous but I
have to give him credit, he manages to keep moving toward me anyway.
He stops in the middle of the street. "Rattlesnake Jim," he yells. "They say you're gonna kill my pa." His voice, though somewhat shaky has a
bite to it and his gun hand stands ready to draw.
So, this is one of the Shelton boys. I reckon this must be Davey, the next to
youngest. He tries to swallow as I
hold his stare, not moving or answering him, but I know his mouth is too
dry. Finally, I turn my head
slightly and spit into the street, but I keep my eyes locked on him.
With some difficulty, he manages to swallow the lump in
his throat. "I ain't gonna let ya,"
he says. He shifts his weight
slightly and his gun hand quivers.
I step into the street and walk toward him. Along the street, a young boy stands in
front of his parents, an eager look on his face. He can't be more than five or six. He is obviously here to see someone
killed, as are his parents. And why not? Life is hard in these parts and the
sooner he understands the better.
He smiles as I pass by.
The crowd is to my right as I approach Davey Shelton, at the edge of my
vision. There's another flash like
the ignited powder from a rifle shot
followed by that strange clicking sound again. Since there's no bullet, I can't risk
searching the crowd for the cause.
I must keep my attention on Davey.
I stop about twenty‑five feet from Davey Shelton, making
sure my right gun is free to draw; I'm not as fast with my
left.
Standing there, I realize how young he looks, despite the
couple of day’s growth on his chin.
He’s a couple of years younger than Dusty; he can’t really know what he’s
up against. I’ll wait for him to
draw first. I’m a gun fighter, not
a murderer.
I hear footsteps coming up behind me on the walkway. Light, hurried footsteps.
"Jimmy, don't Jimmy." Sara's sweet voice sings in my
ears. "This won't help. It ain't gonna bring Dusty back," Sara
says. I can see her now, standing
on the walkway to my left. Even
though it has been more than two years since I've seen her, she's as beautiful
as the day we met. Her blonde hair
tied back with a red ribbon and the radiance of her cheeks, illuminating her
dress. Even the dust seems to part
for her, like some dull and wispy phantom Red Sea.
Even though it is warm and dry, she still wears the shawl
her mama made for her and around her neck is the string with the miniature
silver spur I gave her when I asked her to be mine. The day I promised to take her away from
this backwater town and show her the world. Chicago, New Orleans,
Paris.
I tried to make good on that promise but it was no
use. The months of cow pokin’ and
bronco bustin’ and even black smithin’ never led anywhere. All I got was enough to feed and clothe
me and a sore back. There was only
one thing I was ever really good at.
And now Dusty was dead because of it. It was my reputation, Jim Duncan, "Rattlesnake Jim," gunfighter,
outlaw; that's what got him killed.
Well, the only thing I can do for him now is
revenge. "Somebody has to pay," I
say.
"Why? It
won't prove nothin'. More killin'‑"
"Dusty done paid for what he done ta my sister," Davey says,
interrupting Sara. His hand is only
a few inches from his gun. His
fingers begin to twitch and his stance stiffens. There's no turning
back.
"I don't think he did nothin’," I say. "I think your Pa just found them
together and couldn't stand it." I
slide my right foot back a few inches and turn ever so slightly, to get a better
angle to draw.
"He found 'em all right. And we knew what he done. He was your brother weren't he."
"Yep, he was my brother all right, so your Pa killed
him."
"He deserved it, for takin' advantage of my sister!" The hatred shows in his face and I
forget his youth. He’s beginning to
look like his father.
"What Dusty done or didn't, ain't gonna matter
now," Sara says, moving closer to me.
"Do you think he did it?" I ask her. She doesn't answer, but the look on her
face says it for her. How could she
even consider it? She'd known Dusty
even longer than she'd known me. It
was Dusty who introduced us.
"My Pa caught him red handed," Davey says. "And a Duncan's a Duncan." His hand is almost clenched now and
although his anger is evident, his resolve may be wavering.
I look Davey in the eye. "Maybe your sister was doing somethin'
she shouldn't,” I say. “And if that
weren't bad enough, she was doin' it with a Duncan." I narrow my eyes and get ready to
draw.
Davey goes for his gun, but it's barely out of his
holster when I squeeze the trigger of my colt. The bullet carries him backward as his
gun fires harmlessly toward the ground.
I put my gun back in its holster and walk over to
Sara. She has turned her head and
is staring down at a hitching post but she hasn’t run away. As I step up on the walkway she says,
“How could you? Dusty’s still
dead.”
“I know,” I say.
“There ain’t no reasonin’ it.
Jus’ the way it is.” I put
my hand on her arm and she slowly looks up to me. The sadness in her eyes penetrates
deeper than any bullet I’ve ever taken and for a moment, I consider sweeping her
up in my arms and riding out of town with her. Our gazes lock for several seconds
before we are jarred back to reality by a commotion behind us.
An older woman runs into the street. "Davey!" she screams, and falls on the
motionless body. The sheriff and
several deputies come around the corner of the feed store, Bill Shelton and his
two other sons follow closely behind.
Instinctively, I push Sara into a doorway and turn to face them. There's at least six or seven of
them. I don't like the odds.
"All right Jim, give it up. Undo your gun belt," says Sheriff Tom
Jessup. “There’s been enough
killin’ for one afternoon.”
“Yes Jimmy, give up. If you really do love me, give it up,
please!”
Before anyone can say much of anything else, one of the
Sheltons draws. I respond and
barely get my shot off before his.
I hear his bullet whiz by my head.
Everyone else draws almost
simultaneously, except Sheriff Tom.
“No, hold your fire!” he yells at his deputies, but it’s
too late, their guns are ready and cocked.
I fire a second shot, striking a deputy as his bullet rips into my left
leg.
I spin around and fire at another deputy, hitting him in
the side. At the same time, I draw
my other gun and fire at Sam Shelton, the Shelton’s oldest boy.
I don’t have time to aim and my shot sails wide. He ducks for cover as the bullet hits a
post.
The sheriff has finally drawn his gun but he’s
yelling at the Shelton’s, trying to restore order.
The last deputy ducks behind a wagon and we exchange
fire.
Bill Shelton yells back at Sheriff Tom, wildly waving his
gun.
The deputy I shot in the side, fires back from where he
lays in the street. The bullet
grazes my arm.
A second bullet strikes me in the gut and I take a step
back. Pain shoots through my body
but I manage to stay standing.
I see one of the Shelton’s, Matt I think, run for a buggy
by the edge of the crowd and I fire, shooting him clean through the
back.
Sheriff Tom points his gun at me and screams, “For
Christ’s sake, stop,” while Bill Shelton comes toward me in a
rage.
I level both guns at him. He's aiming at me as well. Our stares meet. Our hatred exchanges in the fury of our
guns.
I am hit twice more, but am too angry to fall, as I empty my guns to riddle his
body.
Sheriff Tom fires several shots.
So does the deputy from behind the
wagon.
And the one lying in the street.
My body is rocked and I fall back, hitting a post. A few more bullets fly about and then
silence.
I fall off the walkway and land on a hitching post, my
stomach wraps neatly around it. My
spurs jingle as they begin to spin.
My hat falls to the ground.
I'm staring down at dirt and dust.
My mouth is dry. I can see
the guns still in my hands but I cannot lift them. The jingle slowly fades away as a thick
salty wetness fills my mouth.
I hear the sheriff and deputies mumbling something and
Sara crying in the background, trying to get to me. Poor Sara. She’s the one purely innocent in all
this. Innocent of being a Duncan or
a Shelton. Innocent of reckless defiance or
exploitation. Innocent of
everything, except loving me. She
tried to warn me. Tried to save us
both. Who'll save her now? Save her from this lonesome town? It sure is dusty. Dusty.
As
the life drains from my body, I hear the applause. It lasts for several seconds. A hand on my shoulder tells me I can get
up. It's Sara, or rather, Lisa.
We take a bow as the announcer comes over the loud
speaker. "That concludes this
afternoon’s show at Old Tucson movie studios. We hope you enjoyed it. There'll be another show this evening at
six."
I retrieve my hat, and Lisa and I walk down the street
acknowledging the waves from the crowd.
She doesn't say a word, but there's a slight, mischievous sort of smile
on her face and she seems to be walking a little closer to me than usual. As we near the edge of the crowd, she
puts her arm in mine and we continue to
walk.
The End
About the Author:
Michael Martin has lived in Tucson his entire life,
running his own Tax Accounting Service for over twenty years. With over a dozen short stories to his credit, Mike is also an avid
poet and his poem, "Scorpion Dance" won
first prize in Fiction Addiction Poetry contest a few years ago.
Thank you for reading and make sure to come back next week for more great fiction, poetry, and art!
