Flash Fiction
As Miss Kitty squatted to pee in the dust by the side of Main
Street , her modesty protected by her long black hooped
skirts, gimpy Chester struggled
hurriedly past her shouting, “Mister Dylan! Mister Dylan! A cowpoke’s been shot
over to Fern Hill!”
Hitching up his gun belt with a pout, the Sheriff peered
over the double doors of the saloon to see what all the commotion was about.
Miss Kitty having moved on, a stray mongrel hurried over to
sniff at the intriguing new muddy spot, still damp despite the heat of the sun
at high noon.
The sheriff now shrugged and turned back to the bar,
awarding priority to his still-foaming beer.
Resigned to being ignored, Chester
stood asymmetrically without, thumbing through the pages of a dog-eared
paperback.
On a hilltop half a mile out of town, a nameless cowboy
quietly bled out unmourned, never having drawn his trusty Colt.
