The sheriff stood in front of the saloon and watched the young cowboy ride up.
“Howdy,” the sheriff said.
The young man got off his horse.
“Howdy, Sheriff.”
After tying his horse to the hitching rack, he took off his long frock coat revealing a pistol belt hung low on his right hip.
“In town long?” the sheriff asked.
The young man took one last drag from the small cigar dangling from thin lips and crushed it under a dusty boot.
“Long enough for a drink if that’s all right with you.”
“Just as long as there’s no trouble.”
“I’m real peaceable. All I want’s a drink and to be left alone.”
“You know people won’t leave you alone. You have a reputation.”
“Am I in trouble in your town, Sheriff?”
“No.”
The kid nodded and didn’t look over his shoulder as he strolled into the saloon.
The sheriff took a folded poster out of his breast pocket and opened it.
“$500,” he said out loud.
He put the poster back in his pocket and went in the saloon. The kid was standing at the end of the bar drinking a beer. The place was quiet with the patrons watching the kid.
“Whiskey, Bill,” the sheriff said.
Bill nodded and took his hand off the shotgun under the bar.
The sheriff took his drink and went to the kid.
“Mind if I drink with you?”
“Not at all.”
The sheriff saw Bill reach down to feel the shotgun. He shook his head.
“That bartender has a nervous hand,” the kid said. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“It might be a good idea if you finished your drink and rode on.”
“Not very hospitable, Sheriff. You treat all your visitors like this?”
“Not all of our visitors are hired killers and on the run.”
“I’m not on the run. I’m just passing through.”
The kid took a big sip of his beer.
“Sure is good.”
The kid held up his mug to Bill.
“You have good beer, Bill. Hope you get to keep serving it.”
Bill took his hand off the shotgun and moved to the other end of the bar.
“Easy, Kid,” the sheriff said. “Bill’s just protecting his place.”
“Nothing to protect it from, Sheriff.”
The kid finished his beer and said, “I’ll think I’ll have another.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
The sheriff finished his whiskey.
“Look, Kid, you have a big reward on your head and I don’t want no one here collecting it.”
“Why not? It would give your town a big name.”
“Every hothead and kid who thinks he can shoot will show up here. We don’t need that.”
“Okay, Sheriff, I’ll go. It’s not very friendly here anyway.”
The pair walked out together. The kid mounted up.
“Nice talking to you, Sheriff. Maybe I’ll be back around these parts some other time.” The kid tipped his hat. “And we can have another drink together.”
The sheriff nodded and watched the kid ride off. He was almost to the edge of town when a rifle shot rang out. The kid tumbled out of his saddle.
“Hard times will fall on this town,” the sheriff said watching the crowd gather.
The End
*****
Lowell Bergeron lives in Iowa, Louisiana with his wife, Fae, and granddaughter, Kaitlyn. He’s been interested in writing, especially short stories, for a long time. He had an article printed in one of his local magazines.
Filed under: Guest Writers | Tagged: flash fiction, Iowa, Louisiana, Lowell Bergeron, magazines, short stories, writing, Young Gunfighter | 2 Comments »
This Is Your Life
Are you a student? Are you a manager? Are you a cab driver? Are you a nurse? Are you a homemaker? Are you a husband or a wife or a boyfriend or a girlfriend? Are you divorced? Are you young, middle age or a senior citizen? Are you retired like me?
Excellent. Your life will make for great flash fiction. Try writing flash fiction. The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette is here to help you do just that. Use the subscription tab at the top of the page to take out a free subscription and have every issue of The Gazette delivered to your inbox.
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News: BP Oil Spill Keeps Getting Worse
The coast line from Texas to Louisiana is slowly feeling the impact of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Media outlets are reporting that scientists are warning that oil plumes, some ten miles long, beneath the surface of the water have entered the loop stream and are headed around the tip of Florida for the East Coast of the United States.
Although BP has inserted a pipe in the head of the oil well that is one mile below the surface of the ocean, at least 200,000 gallons of oil is still spilling into the ocean every day. Scientists are expressing fears that the wetlands of Louisiana may not recover from the devastation of the oil spill for generations to come.
The only sure solution for stopping the oil spill is the drilling of relief wells; but these relief wells will not come online for at least another month. In the meantime the destruction goes on as it spreads over an ever-increasing area of coast lines and ocean.
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Building A Short Story
The familiar classic form of a short story is pretty much set in stone. There is the setup, the buildup and the payoff. This is the same form for flash fiction, sudden fiction, short short stories and very short stories.
Or a writer can think of a story as a building. Here are some of the building blocks.
There must be a protagonist. I like to rummage around in my own life and come up with a projection of myself to play this part.
For conflict I pick a situation I have first hand knowledge of. That way I know what I’m writing about.
Locale is either Vietnam or Pittsburgh. Usually it’s Pittsburgh since I was in Vietnam for only a year a long time ago and Pittsburgh has been my home since I was born.
This is how you can build a story one brick at a time.
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In The Shadow Of The Cathedral Of Learning
I was back from Vietnam and discharged from the army. I was young and in college. A light snow was falling. It was night and I could see that farther down the avenue the commercial district was all lit up. I was glad I had decided to stay in Pittsburgh to go to school. I wasn’t so happy about joining the fraternity I had joined.
Well this time I wasn’t going to take any more guff from Tom. It didn’t matter that he had been drunk earlier. It didn’t matter that he was my fraternity brother. When he was sober he was too big to mess with, but he was probably still drunk and getting drunker and I could take him. I was well into the commercial district when someone spoke to me. The person was past me and I stopped and turned to see who it was and it was Joyce Lynn Summerton.
She said, “And where are you on your way to in such a huff?”
“To kick some butt!” I didn’t like the anger in my voice. I didn’t like that Joyce could hear the anger, too.
Joyce Lynn Summerton was in my Monday, Wednesday and Friday ten o’clock. I looked at her hair, eyes and mouth. Her complexion had a slight glow from the chill in the air. There was something in her shoulder bag. I shifted my books and notebook to my other hand.
More calmly I said, “You don’t make it to any of our parties anymore.”
“Not like I use to,” she said. “Some of the fraternity brothers get too rowdy for me.”
“Me too.”
We stood in silence for a moment. Her gloved right hand came up and squeezed her coat together at her throat even though her muffler must have kept out the chilly air. She smiled at me and then looked away.
“I’m headed back to the dorms to sit in front of the boob tube,” she said. “On a Friday night. Do you believe it? I just made a run for some popcorn to pop.”
I nodded and smiled.
“Well,” she said, “have to slide.”
“Joyce?”
She turned back to me.
I said, “Do you think I could come up and watch some TV with you?”
“In my room?”
“I’ll go whenever you want me to.”
“Frank, I don’t know.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“A boyfriend?” She laughed. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
There was a display window near us. Several mannequins in swim suits were posing on a sunny beach. Joyce was looking at the display window. She put her gloved hands in the pockets of her coat and then looked at me and said, “I’ll have to sign you in.”
We started walking for the dorms.
“So,” she said, “how’ve you been?”
“Great.”
The End
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Short Story Ideas That Work
Flash Fiction Means Never Saying You’re Sorry
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