Kathie fired a warning shot over the heads of the thieving mob that had surrounded the gunslinger’s prone body. Her former mentor may have lost the duel but those scrabbling vermin wouldn’t rob his fancy boots; they’d now pass to her.
Kathie thought somberly, “To the victor go the spoils.”
Emma Grave is a speculative fiction writer who lives near the forest of Cannock Chase in the UK with her husband and house rabbit.
Give me creosote, sidewinders, the lone call of a coyote on top of a mesa, the silver sliver of a cold desert moon. Follow the train whistle scream, the chug and iron stink of steam.
Pull the handkerchief over my mouth. Spare the women and children.
Ride like the wind.
Alison grew up in the Wild West, but hasn’t robbed any trains… yet. You can read more of her writing at alisonmcbain.com
He gave my daddy 20 gold coins.
He had one bag.
We quickly arrived at his room.
He placed his colt on his table. “That’s our secret.”
“May I see?”
I gave him the key.
The next day he was gone without a trace.
Except for the revolver.
Gaghe Macwilliams is a high school student from PEI Canada who decided to try out 50-word stories.
We’re here. Town. The solution to our problems.
Ma and Pa described it as a place where everything is painted bright colours, everybody smiles all the time, and the streets are all paved. It sounded like heaven.
But the jolting of the wagon wheels over the cobblestones feels decidedly unheavenlike.
This story is based on a title suggested by Cody Bernal.
Noon: the sun stood still overhead.
A man in a black hat faced a man in a brown hat.
“Take ten paces!” cried the sheriff.
One, two, three, four—BANG!
Brown hat fell. Blood pooled in the dust; black hat smirked.
Black hat fell. “Filthy cheater,” said the sheriff.