[Preview] A Silver Star in a Setting Sun
Artwork is by Brenoch Adams, links are below.
http://i.imgur.com/jDqtKd1.png
A hot, tasteless wind blew over the burning dust, whisking away the rancid smoke. An acrid, reeling wave of death that in itself rotted beneath the baleful glare of the sun above, forcing the mind to stare into the withering heart of man, through the decay of the human soul.
Day by day it would sear the rasping rivers, and split the earth to wrench the final drops from their tomb. It was merciless, a demon in the sky; almost surreal in its spectral throne, watching its dying kingdom choke on its final breath.
**It was under this sky he wondered, whether he pulled the trigger, or merely watched his will cave in to his desire. The distance did nothing to hide the remorse, eyes that longed for rest. The end was near; the slow burn of time, his conscience drifting lazily from the barrel. **
#Open this is a new tab for ambient
As it is distracting (the video). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_W1jW3vhBoI
It was harder to sleep each passing day, they were restless, enough so that it wore on his duster beside the star, though no one thought it a sign of weakness. Their sheriff had a long run, longer than most, maybe even the longest; it was surprising enough to have him on his feet the very next day.
Fyrone was a name long forgotten, a deranged man who sought the brittle soil in the south, where even the sands had run dry. He saw the void of life, and claimed it his own, herding the damned to a new life on what seemed a distant moon.
There is no arm of law that would reach to burn the tips of its fingers there, small communities banded around what few water sources survived the blistering heat, more often a sheriff to regulate it.
‘Hopeless’ was the job description, a dry smirk etched on his weary face. He had not foreseen any successors, the last one had still yet to be buried, yet here he was. His stare was both grave and thoughtful, equally piercing and distant, he offered only once.
The table missed its third lag, propped up by whittled stones at a precarious slant, it bore a revolver and one silver star, the badge of a sheriff. He picked up the star and pinned it to his rusty duster; a subtle turn revealed a weathered relic, up kept and polished to a weary shine, the six chambers clung to their respective rounds.
“Mind tellin’ me your name?” The doorway was a glorified hole in the clay office, an arid wind lulled through the crumbling buildings. He smiled a warm, dry smile.
“Dane!”
His arm lay in a pool of blood, soaking the flea ridden mattress; eyes stared listlessly at the buckling ceiling, aloof from the wandering mind within. He could see himself standing the day before, over and over again, there was no wrong in that action.
Yet this time he turned around, to look at his wounded future, and he spoke soundless words of law.
“Dane!”
A river of red had trailed to the cracked foundation by the time he entered the room, he breathed with a heavy and strained voice, his speech came out like a graveled whisper.
“…I hear you.”
“You better start gettin’ up, big day to be sleepin’.”
“…I’m tired.”
“No yer not, get up.” The man took the bloodied duster off the wall, and pinned the star to its chest. It had a hole just shy of the center, caked with an acrylic fetor.
“You want me to die Farl?”
“No.”
“…Why’d you hire me then?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t.”
“…Farl.”
“Yea?”
“You’re a good man.”
“Heh, it rubs off.” He took a few solemn steps towards the rasping sheriff, and offered him his flask.
“…Will he die?”
“Long’s you don’t shoot him wrong.”
“He shot my arm.”
“You’ve shot hundreds of arms.”
“That was my arm.”
“You’ve still got yer right one.”
His eyes drifted from the ceiling, and settled weakly on the outstretched flask. Farl unscrewed the cap, and poured it onto Dane’s dying lips. He choked on it briefly, before returning his gaze back to the clay bricked sky.
“…I can’t kill him.”
“Who said anything bout’ killing?”
“He won’t go away if I don’t.”
“The others did.”
“No…I killed them, they had no hands to work, they all died.”
“You’re gonna die too if you don't get up.”
“…He shot me.”
“…I know.”
“That means I’m dead.”
“Remember Harry?”
“He’s dead.”
“No, he’s right outside.”
“...Tell him I’m sorry.” Farl breathed deeply before tossing the worn duster on his lap. He moved to the blinding sun at the door, and looked through the hole one last time.
“Get up.”
