Let me disabuse you of the notion that a man on the brink cain’t elevate himself to a higher status, even in this gristmill of a world. Constraints bein’ what they may, I needed an influx of cash, so I walked into the Terra Casa bank and withdrew every dollar attributed to my name. Then, like the many fools before me inflicted by the notion of grand living, setting their sights on a higher power, I put my head down and went across the road to the saloon. There was a space open, to my amelioration or degradation, the answer to that forthcoming, so I placed every cent I’d scrounged rustling cattle on the table. “Whiskey!” I shouted at the barkeep. “On red, please,” I whispered to the table runner. As it spun, so did I, and it wasn’t until the final ticks of that wheel I drained my whiskey. Bitter, necessary.
“Winner,” said the table runner.
I had done it; a small part of me knew I would, but I’d kept that part at bay, not wanting hope to muddy the waters of luck. Then, to my consternation, I heard a terrible voice whisper, “Let it ride.”
“Man with the green shirt wants to let it ride,” shouted the table runner to the room. Red shirts, white, black, blue uns’, but only one green shirt among em’, and I was wearing it. Let it ride. Twas’ a cosmic voice spoken with the confidence of a terrestrial fool. The wheel spun. I considered hightailing, but whether I ran out now or walked out after, destitution did not care. “Whiskey—bring the goddamn bottle!” Tick, Tick, Tick…Tick….Tick…….Tick…………Tick.
This story was edited by the wonderful S.E. Reid for a collection of short stories set to be released this Summer (24).
The Fox and the Snipe
Dr. Clancy is lying on the dirt path leading into the town of Calico. The mud beneath him isn’t from rain, nor is it from a spilled canteen. It’s from his own life spilling out of his head—death’s black halo—the end is nigh. He’s been lying on this dirt trail for over two hours, and not a soul has come to his aid, not one weary traveler. But that’s not …