Anyways, enough about random facts about the writing process; enjoy! Western themed little story that, given the W?:, might be continued. I like the story and setting quite a bit, and would like to use some characters that I took the time to name more. Regardless; see you tomorrow at eight AM for more, and have a lovely day!
Arbrey Junction by Mackinley Clevinger, April 20, 2016
Boots thumped against the old, wooden floor, warning the inhabitants of the bar seconds before the shuttered swinging door shot open to the sound of unoiled hinges squealing. The figure of a man stood in the open doorway, outlined by the bright sun of midday and hiding his downturned face beneath a Stetson hat as he stood before the room of frozen men and women.
Silence reigned, a thin breeze blowing past the man and sending the corners of his duster flapping softly as he slowly raised his face towards the bartender, hands rising to rest against his hips as he spat to one side into an open bucket.
“Getting to be about noon.” His voice was rough, words flowing past gravel to escape his throat and run along the aged floor, the bottles scattered around the bar and the silent piano humming with each escaped word.
The woman running the bar broke the tension, looking down at the bar-top and wiping a damp rag along it as she let out an overwrought sigh. “Get in here and quit blocking the light, ya damn fool. What do you think you’re doing, worrying these poor folk?” She tossed the rag on the counter with a quiet splat and reached underneath the bar, looking the man in the face, and clunked a small glass in front of an empty seat.
The man’s face lit up in a grin, and the room returned to its quiet conversations as the man at the piano continued playing. He meandered over to the bar, nodding at a few similarly dressed men and women scattered around the room sitting with their hats to one side.