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…


Sheriff Ingredients

My sister is a trained volunteer sheriff for her city.  Two days ago, she broke one of her toes against a bed leg and had been hobbling around painfully.  We were texting this morning …

She said, “I’ve decided to find a replacement for Sheriff ingredients tomorrow.”

I asked, “Ingredients?”

“Dumb dictionary!”

I laughed out loud and sniggered and she said, “Ignore it.”  Of course, that’s impossible.

I texted back, “How to make a sheriff…one uniform, one car, one partner…”

She added, “One doughnut, no, two doughnuts.”  Then she added, “The word ingredients was just supposed to be –ing at the end of sheriff for sheriffing.

I knew that, but I liked the mistake better—more scope for the imagination.

Secret Prayer Brother

My Sweetie received a ball cap in the mail recently and he was so happy.  He said his Secret Prayer Brother had sent it.  I said, “Really?”  Maybe the men in the church had decided to set up a secret brothers encouragement group like the women’s secret sisters.  He said, “Me.”  I laughed.

A few days later, he was upset because we drove off to do our weekly grocery shopping and he had left his ball cap at home.  He likes wearing hats.  I started rambling about how I like to wear hats too and he interrupted, “It’s the cap from my Prayer Brother.”  Sentimental value.  Ha!

Real Daydream

Leaving a convalescent home and driving

slowly down the empty street on a hot

Sunday afternoon, I approached

the wide, deserted, small-town main

street, and an extraordinary sight

pranced from my left to my right, like a

sweet daydream, of a miniature pony

proudly pulling a driver and a special

wagon made into a white pumpkin cage carrying four

little girls waving happily at me; I started

grinning from ear to ear and waved back, suddenly

in touch with fun people I’ll never know except

at just this one special moment