Western

DAY 2:

INT. BATHROOM OF MOTOR HOME, MORNING.

FADE IN:

Men with guitars will always get lucky.

"Don't linger," Marge said. "Might come up a storm."
Jeb smiled. "You jealous?" he asked.

The wild young cowboy, Texas Red, falls in love with the beautiful Faleena.

When she flirts with another the guns start shooting.

Based on the Marty Robbins song, "El Paso."

“So how do you feel about killing?”

“I think death is a natural process.”

“Not death, murder.”

short prose

Father Peter sits behind his desk, marking passages in a tattered bible with a makeshift pencil.

The tall man sits alone in his small tent. Outside the rumble of his men’s partying and drinking can be heard. The tall man is in no mood for festivities.

John awakens to the soft sound of Jane’s voice. A sweet melody flows from her lips. John opens his eyes. He lies atop the sheets of his bed. He quickly sits up.

John slowly approaches Haven. A tall sign rocks with the wind as he passes under it. The town is not unlike the others; half empty and quiet. No church resides over the town.

“Who are you?”
“I am God.”
“And I?”
“You are the servant.”

John stands alone in a shadowed hallway. A towering figure of light stands far off in the distance.

John’s horse rushes through the empty prairie. He squints into the sun and off into the land beyond. From ahead a large wooden structure emerges.

The desert sun beats down upon John. He swallows the last of his water and lets the canteen drop to the ground. He pushes his Stetson forward, protecting whatever he can from the sun’s rays.

John stands alongside his steed, a lone figure of redemption amongst the burning desert sand. He, a dove among crows, watches the dying sun spill over the sloping plateau.

Prince’s horse bursts through the desert grass, burning the land in its fury. Prince breaths John’s scent, his sweat and tears. He hunts him. The smell of dried corn and horse feed drifts ahead.

The tall man’s rifle glitters silently in the light. The silver glint shines off into the desert. The handle, expertly crafted, is grasped tightly in his left hand.

The tall man’s eyes do not shine with glee or blaze with anger. They are empty. They are cold.

“I leave you with nothing and take from you everything. I have ruined you.”

The fields are burning. Embers light fires that spread through the corn. Dust and shades of ash flee into the sky, spilling stains of gray upon the earth. Unholy fire laying bare the field.

short prose - 220 words.

A soul on the scales, a crescent moon over the desert, and a grave decision made on the edge of death.