This is the beginning to my first novel, which is in the series I am writing called: 'The Gunslinger' or something to that point. Titles mean nothing to me at the moment, even the document is titled: Chapter1.wps and not even a name, so I didn't even name the chapter yet.
Critique, suggestions, comments and all that are very welcomed, I plan, and want, to get this published. This story, series, whatever, is actually a twist on a real life happening. I twisted it with fiction to make it seem a bit more interesting to the people out there these days, but I still hope the message gets through to some.
Speeches and updates along with notes and ect., shall be updated in these first few paragraphs.
Edited: I had the lovely Lirabeth edit it, and I didn't get through all edits, but I got most of them, that didn't have to do with changing the whole paragraph, so I repost it, brand new.
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Critique, suggestions, comments and all that are very welcomed, I plan, and want, to get this published. This story, series, whatever, is actually a twist on a real life happening. I twisted it with fiction to make it seem a bit more interesting to the people out there these days, but I still hope the message gets through to some.
Speeches and updates along with notes and ect., shall be updated in these first few paragraphs.
Edited: I had the lovely Lirabeth edit it, and I didn't get through all edits, but I got most of them, that didn't have to do with changing the whole paragraph, so I repost it, brand new.
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[ ]
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I.
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I.
The cruel reality had caused the gunslinger to dim; the daisy shone.
The cloven hillside had arched deeply, running itself into a hardpan and through the thick horizon. Cacti dotted the desert like blooming flowers and the sky was cloudless; the sun nothing more than a halo of heat. Thin waves of heat danced in the dry air, blurring the gunslinger’s vision in the distance.
The desert stretched on, the few lifeless tumbleweeds rolled past, scratching at the parched ground and bouncing with the dry heat. The sound of cracking was even heard among the dry wind, it seemed to sing a song, almost begging for water.
Yet the hope hadn’t run dry from the gunslinger’s mind, even if the sanity had. The images that danced with the sizzling waves was a fountain in this insane wasteland of nothingness.
It could have been days, weeks or months since he had seen civilization. A friend from the past had been known to say that time was funny in some places, yet it had taken more of a toll on his mind than his body. It only felt like days, to his body, since he had gotten a drink of water, yet to his mind, it seemed like ages.
A dry caw could be heard in the distance and the flapping of wings. The hot wind rattled at the broken pieces of wood that lay in a near by deserted farm field. The place was like a barren wasteland, even the barbed wire had lost its color, and even shape. It could have been melting in the heat, yet the gunslinger didn’t pay it much mind.
He contemplated whether to head into the barn to cool down or to attempt the few miles that laid ahead of him. Despite the heat, even a dead horse could have probably told him not to enter the barn. The ominous feeling that loomed over it and the odd sounds coming from it, which didn’t sound like vultures, had an oddly drugging affect on him.
It captivated him for a few moments time, yet he soon snapped into reality. He wasn’t one to dwell on things, he’d be sure to ride out here if civilization was up ahead. He’d heard from May’s teachings that if the human mind wanted to make you see a person, it’d make you see it.
He started off down the cloven hillside, with short, jittery movements. The loose holding on the ground, along with his lack of physical ability, made it hard to stay upright at this moment. The dust and rock slid down, crumbling beneath his boots and he slid onto the hardpan, looking out to his destination.
His fingers ached and his hips felt bruised, suddenly the guns on his hips didn’t seem as pleasant as they had been when first given to them. They seemed to be filled with doubts, layered and caked with doubts, and maybe even guilt. They felt heavy and dark to the touch, as if they were mocking him.
A heavy pounding throbbed at the back of his skull, making his ears pulse and have an odd ring within them, along with an aching twist. The arches of his feet ached and sharp pains shot through them as he began to walk.
His careful steps, which had created small prints within the blown away topsoil upon the hard, broken ground, were soon forgotten by the desert as the topsoil spun away.
The shapes ahead had began to form into solids and stop moving for a time as he grew near to the source of civilization. It swayed from time to time, yet lack of water and vitamins had told him that he was the one swaying. His boots were dry, not oiled like they had been when he first started this journey, they looked just like the hardpan: cracked, old, dry and tired.
The desert wheezed from time to time; a cresting hill slopping up then suddenly cropping down held strong against the wind, causing the topsoil to break against it, flying everywhere. The dirt found its way into his boots and hair, making his thick black hair seem thicker than it already was, more blocky and cut awkwardly.
Life blossomed from the heat rays, the broken ground oddly changing from a cracked ground to a bumpy, dusty road. He hadn’t seen a road in ages, he had forgotten what one looked like. He wasn’t sure if it even was a road, yet its vertical pattern heading one way from where he was gave him a new hope that he had recognized one.
Wheels turned in the distance and a groan could be heard from the wheezing hardpan. Dust licked at his trench coat, bleaching the leather and soon finding its way to his mouth, which awkwardly made a home on the bottom of his tongue. It caused him to lick his lips, cough and spit awkwardly, making him look like a mad man.
The taste of it was even tempting. It didn’t taste like dust, or even that annoying concrete that he had grinned up for years of his life, it tasted better than the dead grass within the hardpan as well. The yellow-green shrubs also fled from his view, the plants were a foreboding character of the desert; representing death and the odd rebirth that came with it.
Oil and gas licked at the air and settled in his nostrils, causing a shiver of anticipation to run through his spine, his bones popping audibly.
The kerosene lamps flickered within the wind, the flame dipping into the gusts every so often and many going out. Windows and doors rattled, near by a broken shutter slammed back and forth, slowing every so often.
His body couldn’t decide what it wanted first: water or sleep. The lack of both had interfered with his logic, and he had soon began to doubt if this was even a town. Civilization upon the streets wasn’t visible, and the lines of light bleeding from the sun cast waves of shadows into the cracks of the alley ways.
The near by sign swayed in the wind, and his gaze flickered to it. The ink had worn into the wood, and both had been half heartedly washed away by the wind.
Bat wing doors marked the entrance of the near by honky-tonk. He assumed the sign of ‘Pearl’s’ was their cheap and sad attempt of advertisement.
The shaved down wood, which had splinters and chips every so often, held a design that may have been common to townspeople, yet, was odd to him. It felt odd to the touch, as he pushed open the right door, with one hand, and lazily looked up at the dim lighted room.
The bottom floor of the honky-tonk was a supposed rectangle, with the height of the sides stretching to the opposite side of the room. A carved in rectangular shaped bar also lay on the other side of the room, and to the right of that, a badly constructed piano.
Stair cases, made of cheap wood, extended from either side of the far corners, leading up to the second story. Round tables, filled with poker chips and stale beer, dotted the wooden floor and the piano struck sour notes, to fit the mood.
The gas lamps, which were held by a cheap chandelier, colored with brown, fake gold, and green colors, flickered every so often and continued to try and shine through the dirty glass.
The air was smoky, wafts of cigarette ash and clouds either drifted through the small cracks in the ceiling, or settled in the thick air. There was the every so often clang of glass with the constant gossip, that hadn’t settled, and probably never would.
The gunslinger weaved his way through the crowd of whores, attention whores and gamblers, to the bar, where he rested his hands on the dirtied porcelain. The wood underneath it had began to chip and the wood beneath his feet cracked and rocked with each movement.
“Water.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“What doesn’t.”
The bartender eyed him for a few moments, hesitating and looking him over. With a roll of her eye and a quick movement of the wrist, the towel that was once in her hand, was resting on her shoulder and a glass of water was set before him.
He reached in his pocket, trying to ignore the dirt and grains of sand that nipped at his hands and placed a chip of some oddly shaped metal on the bar. After going through the routine of ‘is it real’, she placed the coin away and walked off, resuming with her earlier mood.
His lack of water had gone to the point of: over drinking would cause the body to react oddly and the ill feeling of gluttony would form within his stomach. He sputtered and wheezed, the cold feeling against his dry throat odd to his mind. Water droplets went onto the bar and the back of his hand.
His stomach suddenly roped into knots. He grimaced, finally showing an ounce of emotion in the past days, months or maybe even years. He placed the unfinished water on the bar and eyed one of the green doors above the first floor.
He gestured and snapped his fingers. “Miss,” she turned around sharply, which made him turn sharply. The sudden change of velocity had caused his stomach to flop. Bile rose in his throat and he took another swig of the water. “How much for a room?”
She glanced up at the rooms. “Not much, your coin covered more than the water. One night at the most.”
“Right…”
The sick feeling had soon passed within his stomach, the roping and settled and the bile had eased. The feeling of satisfaction was like a drug, making his movements slower and more clumsy, within his new state of mind and his eyes dropped.
Head down, hat over eyes, he slowly walked up the staircase, one hand on the rail. He swayed every so often and came upon the green door.
In the morning, he would not remember falling asleep on the floor.
II.
The morning was quieter.
The dim lighted rectangle had become a bright mixture of clean scents and breakfast by the time he had came to.
The floor was cold and sunlight blinded him for a moment, and after the few moments he had taken to regain his sense of self, he began to wonder where he was. The throbbing in the back of his skull and the constant rhythm of ringing in his ears had began to grow annoying. There was a slight strumming within his stomach and a sour taste within his mouth.
He suddenly realized his hat was gone. He looked up, seeing the brown piece of cloth before him and a small white daisy on the ground. With a groan erupting from his throat, and from the floorboards, he rose to his knees, then feet, grabbing the hat and flower.
He glanced out the window, carriages and people roaming about on the dusty trail. He placed the hat on his head and stood there for a few moments, a blank look on his face and he looked at the flower. His gaze shifted to his guns on the floor, which he had, no doubt, taken off within his off state.
He picked up the guns and looked at them for a moment, opening his mouth for the first time this morning. The cool wind brushed against his tongue, giving him the sickly taste within his mouth and he licked his teeth, trying to ignore the plague.
The gunslinger looked at his guns for a moment before strapping them onto his bruised hips, his eyes closing slightly and then he looked up to the door. He looked back at the untouched bed and then the floor and sighed, exiting the room.
The upper floor of the honky-tonk was only filled with small catwalks, which had railings and lead to a few rickety doors. The railing sloped down onto the first floor of the room, which he followed with careful, easy steps. Sleep had collected within his eyes and he began to rub it out, looking up once more.
The first floor was empty, other than the few people silently chewing on a sugar patty or a piece of meat. The bartender looked different from before and she wore a blue shawl, which was slipping off her shoulders.
The place looked clean and the smoke had vanished from the air, giving him a sense of purity and he breathed in, letting the clean air fill his lungs.
“Oh… you’re up.”
He sat on a near stool and leaned on his elbows, his shoulders hunching forward. “You close the door?”
“No.”
He looked up at her. “Wasn’t there another one?”
“Another…?” she looked at the people who had sat down within the complex before she looked at him. “Oh, bartender? Yes, my sister.”
“Ah…” he slightly shook his head, acknowledging her words before looking at the sizzling grill behind her. Grease and fat bubbled as the bacon simmered, his stomach sang at the thought. “How much for meat?”
She looked at it. “Your coin will pay for this, do you even remember what you put down?”
The look on his face gave her the answer. In a matter of minutes, bacon, eggs and some sort of odd looking toast had been served to him. The frying pan was sitting on the piece of metal not far from him, cooling off as she loaded another, and began to cook once more.
He ate with his elbows on the bar, his head down as he crammed the food into his mouth. He did it little by little, taking his time, as his stomach tried to adapt to the oncoming odd substances. The grease felt thick and hot against his dry throat, and it settled within his stomach thickly.
The eggs were puddles of grease and he did not dare touch the green tinted brown bread. He kept his eyes low and soon the honky-tonk began to fill up once more, people coming and going as he ate.
“Oh!”
His head snapped up as he looked at the bartender. Her blue shawl had been pushed off and she shoved a man away from the cooling frying pan, which had pieces of egg and toast still stuck in it.
“Away you poor oaf! I said aw--”
She stepped back as the gunslinger moved slightly, and the man who had been picking at the frying pan, went back to his business. The gunslinger grabbed the pan, the handle feeling a bit warm and he brought it quickly up.
A sickening crack was heard and the bartender squeaked from the corner of the bar and the gunslinger set down the pan. He glanced to the mirror behind the bar, staring past his reflection and at the man struggling to get up.
“Hi ho! I’m becoming more like Hellsing.” He turned. “Hmmm? Seems he’s still conscious.”
The bartender scurried from the bar and shooed the man away, kicking him out, literally, and picking up her shawl. She cursed the mess of egg and toast on the ground and looked back at the gunslinger, a sour look upon her face.
“Is he a regular?”
“At picking and pissing me off-- no, I’d say he’s a natural.” She huffed and placed the frying pan in the dishes. The gunslinger finished his plate of food and slid it forward, so she’d get the hint.
“How much for a horse?”
She looked at him as she slid the plate within the soapy water. “You looking to get out of here quick or are you just curious?”
“The barn,” he looked back outside. “I wanted to head back to it.”
“The barn…” her statement had had a slight change of tone at the end, making it seem like a question before she looked back down at him. “Oh, you mean the one way out there? How far did you travel?”
How far, indeed.
“How much?”
“Your coin won’t cover it.”
He glanced at his pocket, he then looked back at her.
“Poor?”
He blinked. “Have any chores I could do, ma’am?”
She rolled her eyes. “First of all, don’t call me ma’am, that makes me feel old. Second of all, if you’re going to call me something, call me miss-- no. Call me Pearl. Yes, Pearl.”
“You the owner?”
“You’re a bright one.”
He was silent.
She stood there, either contemplating, or enjoying the silence before she answered him. “Actually… there is something you can do, for me, I mean, to pay off your debt.”
He blinked.
“My sister and I, later today, are heading to the docks to see the grand opening of a flying contraption, you ought to join us,” she gave a small smile. “For protecting. My sister is popular amongst the men, without her even knowing.”
“Fair enough. What time do I need to be back?”
“How should I know? Time’s funny, not accurate, or it is, I don’t care. But it’s about the time where the sun is up in the sky, high, zenith point.”
He stood, fixing his hat.
“Whoa, whoa, hey there, cowboy, wait, leave something here so I know you’re coming back, can’t let you just take a horse and go.”
He fixed his hat again and looked at her. “I’ll be back.”
He left the honky-tonk, and she watched him go.
Oddly, she believed him.
III.
The gunslinger had figured, after an hour or so, he had simply imagined the barn.
The horse’s attitude wasn’t making much of a difference. He had the sudden feeling he was lost and his stomach flopped, the bile automatically heading up his throat and he turned his head and opened his mouth, about to speak. His mouth shut with a jarring crack that a pain throbbed in his gums.
His body had reacted so naturally within such a lost state, it felt like second nature to turn around and stop someone’s smart opinion or to even make a comment, yet the sudden melancholy feeling washed over his brain and he felt sick.
It wasn’t the feeling of lacking anything physically, it was as if lacking content or even posture to his soul. His stomach flopped once more and churned to the rhythm of wheels in the distance.
The sun blazed in the air and the dry wind soon began to whip at his body, the hard pain cracked and popped which each prod of the horse’s foot. The cloven hillsides arched even deeper, the rolling tumbleweeds seemed thinner.
The weeds grasped at the wind and a dry whistle broke through the tension of the silence. The desert had become more starch and more lacking since he had last seen it, the hard pan had turned white along with the fluttering bursts of sand that burrowed in his hair. The wind had become stronger and the topsoil had finally vanished. The rolling, thin balls of rock and clay had fallen through the cracks and the horse’s feet killed whatever plant dared to stand tall.
The dry heat licked at his coat and pieces of skin that showed through the their leather protectors. The sand paper tongue of the wind made his cheeks ache. His skin felt raw and his hands, like his lips, had cracked, audibly. The horse’s call was lost within the moans of the wind, and he continued on, ignoring all sense of fleeting confidence or even the urge to turn around.
A snap echoed in the distance and the fleeting call of a bird echoed into the sky. The odd feeling of being watched returned to him and he stopped the horse, making it snort.
He glanced up to the looming barn which was surrounded by a makeshift bleached fence. The broken windows and weeds growing up the side of the walls didn’t ease the feeling of dream which had settled within his stomach.
Shade covered most of the edges around the barn and the wheels still turned in the distance. The vast unknown behind him seemed to mock him, the bittersweet memories of once getting lost in the desert returning to him. He turned the horse suddenly, jumped off of it and looked back at the barn.
He tied to horse to a makeshift fence, due to more habit than actual tying the horse down. A dry caw sounded out and the shingles on the roof twisted and turned with the wind. A tumbleweed rolled past, which almost seemed to be laughing at him.
The doors were parted slightly and he grabbed the thin wood with one hand, pushing it to the side. Instantly, sunlight poured into the barn, illuminating the inside and which sent up a screech of crows. The gunslinger instantly covered his face and took a few steps back as they fluttered through broken windows and any exit they could find.
Once the crows had calmed the gunslinger finally peered into the barn, over his arms which were still raised above his head.
