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May 29, 2012
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Content Rating Notice:  Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
  >> Static Item >> Short Story >> Death >> ID #1603063  |   Show DetailsPrinter Friendly Page Tell A Friend
The Cursed Gun
A gunman made a bad deal with the devil.
Rated:
18+
by
Avg Rating: (7)
The rule for this contest is that you have 15 minutes to write a story or poem. The prompt was a picture of two cowboys posing with guns. One had a sheriff's badge.

Before I press down on the seal, let us first review the deal.

He rode into town not knowing who or why. The how, was a given. He, she or they would die at his hand.

Lightening fast, your hands I’ll make. Blackened souls, your gun will take.

He was tired. The trail had been long and he had been riding it for nearly twenty years. One town after another passed through his life. He had little choice in the matter. In fact, he had none at all.

Released to me, their souls will come. Death from the end of your smoking gun.

He went into the general store for no reason other than that was where his boots took him.

The fastest gun is what you want to be. You have made a wise choice by coming to me.

They were in there alright. Two men, one with a badge. They were shaking down the proprietor for money. The man knew this story. He had seen it all before; self-imposed lawmen bullying a small town.

If you ever tire of the fun, simple do not draw your gun.

“How about we take payment out of your daughter here?” said the badge, reaching for a frightened young woman.

The man let the door swing loudly shut behind him. The two bullies turned.

“Let her go.,” He heard himself say. He saw them turn towards him. They liked the odds.

You will be free, once you are dead. Now sign right here in ink, with blood red.

He tried not to draw. He had taken enough lives. Each soul he delivered down below, was a burden on his already weary back. His hands shook as he tried to keep them from reaching for the guns. Death was his only way out.

It was over in an instant. Two men lay dead on the floor.

The man put his guns back into their holster, turned, and walked out into the street. He ignored the looks from behind curtained windows. His boots took him to his horse; his horse took him out of town.

There were souls to gather elsewhere.




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