The Start of a Story

At the Writers’ Group Meeting last Saturday, the prompt was: Write a story in 15-minutes, using the Western Theme, either historical or modern.  Include at least one of three objects: terra cotta pot, glove, and or a boot, if not all three.  We had about 10-minutes to edit…

Christmas Hinkle pulled on her well-used, right boot slowly, thoughtfully, while thinking about the upcoming gunfight at the Alright Corral down the street.  Then, the left boot ate the appropriate foot before she stood up, ready to take the next step.

Before leaving the hotel room, Chris poured the left-over water, from the glass that the hotel gave her the night before, into a large terra cotta flower pot in front of the window looking over the Main Street of bustling Dodge City.

She opened the door, while double checking her holsters—low-slung and strapped on her denim-covered legs.  Chris had cleaned her four hand guns before going to bed last night.  She liked keeping the two 45’s in the holsters and the two Derringers under her arms in mini-holsters, because she never knew when there wouldn’t be time to reload.

Femininely stepping down the wooden stairs and looking down into the lobby to see who was there, Chris made her way into the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast.  It could be her last, she’d make it a good one.  Entering the eating area, her senses heightened when she heard the voices of her longtime enemies, the murderers of her parents and brother.  She had tracked them down during the past three years, talking with Rangers, sheriffs, and anyone else she could think of to help her seek justice, but nobody seemed interested.  After discovering the killers in the Fort Worth area of Texas, she found an old gunfighter to teach her how to shoot fast and true.

She trained determinedly for months, shooting anything and everything, including hunting game.  Then the old gunfighter had given her his lucky pair of gloves, not too thick, not too thin, and made of deer hide leather.  Chris had intentions for the gloves, other than wearing them.  She and the gunfighter parted company and she traveled to her prey’s hunting grounds, where they gambled, robbed people living out by themselves, and caused hate and discontent.  Why the Rangers weren’t interested was beyond her.

She approached the murderers last night in the saloon, after keeping the saloon owner from escorting her (a woman) out of the building by poking a Colt-45 in his face.  Chris took the old gunfighter’s gloves and threw them down in front of the three killers, on their poker table, and told them to meet her at the Alright Corral at 10:00 the next morning or she’d come hunting them.  They laughed, but with her hand gun pointed at them they agreed.  All the men sitting around in the saloon smirked and one said he’d make sure they wouldn’t run away from a woman.

That was last night, now for breakfast…


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