Another off-the-cuff. Cowboy style.
Their eyes clashed like blood-stained blades across the dead red dust of a rickety, fading town. Over his shoulders, the old sun was bleeding out the last of his colors across the long, shadow-pocked Mojave.
One by one he met their steely stares, and in the dying light of the day he saw murderous sparkles in their eyes, winking away like smashed glass bottles. There was a vengeful heartbeat thumping through him, pumping its way down into the butt of his gun. That .32 was ready to fire, and he was ready to kill.
The last of the western Dust Devils had finally found his slippery quarries, rolling around in the dirt like worms; and now that the taste of sweet, sweet rain had lured them all out, the heat of his retribution would shrivel up their hides and leave ‘em for the birds. The hawks, the eagles—the vultures. That .32 was ready to fire. Right between the eyes. Right through their sinewy little criminal minds.
His fingertips, calloused and quick, held fast to the handle of that anxious .32, and with a sleazy desperado’s grin, the last of the western Dust Devils spat to the ground and said, ‘Shoot.’
(A/N: This was a really brief little monograph (originally--I broke it up for posting) I spun together for a creative writing class. It was a warm-up exercise called “Before the Flash,” where you take a picture and write a quick story about what happened right before the picture was taken. The picture we were given was of a cowboy in TIGHT leather chaps, facing four other cowboys in the middle of a ghost town. Now, I’m no Wild West expert, so if something doesn’t make any sense, that’s probably why, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t maul my face off for it. :D)