Tuesday, June 15, 2010


And inspired by Westerns:

He moseyed his horse slowly through the sands, still a few miles out of town. The dry shrubs and tumbleweeds almost shimmered in the glaring sunlight, sand caught in the dried plant matter to look like sparkling diamonds. Jack didn't even look twice and spit over the side of his horse. He reached around into the saddlebag and took out a cigarette and, with a clink, lit it with his old lighter. Smoke swirled around him in a cloud that made him look like one of those new steam engines blazing down the desert at speeds not meant for man to travel at, "If it's faster'n'a horse," he'd said, "then men weren't men to travel it." And he'd meant it. He hadn't ever travelled in one of the dirigibles, either. He found that more unnatural than the trains - men in the sky, flying like birds? Against nature as far as he was concerned. He leaned his hand down, like he did every couple of hours, and checked to make sure his handcannon was still at his side. It was. He then checked his watch, like he did every couple of hours, to see if he was making time. He was.

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