Grave in the Desert

Microfiction, Twitterature December 2nd, 2020

The gunslinger heard the marker before he had seen it. The wind slid through the desert quietly, but it couldn’t resist the jagged wooden cross set atop the grit and shrubs. The grave was otherwise still. Undisturbed.

Stanson knelt, a hand drifting over the earth above the grave. The burial had not been recent, and the dirt was as hard and dry as the rest of the desert. He looked to the sun, then set down his gunny sack and waited.

Twilight arrived, and a chill followed. Stanson twisted, stretched, and saw a crow had come to sit on the grave marker. It watched him with glassy eyes, head cocking and twitching. It’s feathers were restless.

Stanson had a gun in his hand before the bird could scream. The gun bucked like a mad stallion and the crow fell.

Behold the End

Microfiction, Twitterature December 1st, 2020

Hellfire, dust, and shadow swirled in a towering vortex, darkening the heavens. The sky was stained crimson where the tornado met the clouds. Lightning snapped like a cattle driver’s whip. At its base, a figure was silhouetted by the pillar of flame and sand.

Stanson didn’t remember drawing his pistols. For once, they offered little comfort. Even if the gale did not knock his bullets aside, Stanson reckoned the priest's devilry would protect him.

A furlong away, the windstorm ripped into Endroad. Dustmen arrived in hordes from three directions. The townsfolk were trapped, and Stanson was out of time.