Rating: PG13
Word Count: 884
Feedback: I want to know whether or not it flows well, and if the dark subject-matter is positively contrasted by the comic-relief. Did it keep your attention? Would you read other stories about the Silas Phoenix character?
Author's Comments: I can't actually remember the day that I wrote this story, but I remember that it was after watching a Western movie. I believe that I was watching the original True Grit, but I remember that I didn't enjoy it very much. It just wasn't my style, and I think that will show in this short-story. I believe that I wrote this after finishing my first novel, which is about a serial-killer, and I think I brought a lot of the same demented imagery into it. I wouldn't call it one of my best short-stories because I don't really know a whole lot about Westerns, but I do think that it's a fun and entertaining story.
There was a time and place, it wasn't far from here and now, some say it was a darker day, but that's only an opinion. It was a time when wrongs helplessly cried out to the heavens yearning for themselves to be rectified, or at the least, to be given a sort of vindication. They looked around, looking for something that could simply make sense out of what was happening. Many times, more often than not, the wrongdoings went without consequence.
They say that some become their most hopeful when almost all has been lost, and so, some believed in karma. They believed that every evildoer's laugh wouldn't be last. Is there actually a method or scheme behind the madness? Can fate really do the devil's waltz? Can it spin its partner round and round, and then send it tumbling back to the ground?
Nobody can say for sure.
But his name was Silas Phoenix, and he was a murderer, an outlaw, and a cold-hearted man. Evil in the meanest way ever concocted. He didn't eat nails for breakfast but once or twice, some say that he made others give it a try. Even the most brutal square-dancers in the Wild West could only begin to fathom his anger, ... and yet his apathy.
Apathy and anger, oxymora or not, he kept them together, ... and yes, hand-in-hand, they dosado.
However, the devil, he was not, you see, because the devil hid beneath the rubble, waiting for the chance to poke and jab with his pitchfork. Everyone knew that Silas Phoenix existed, and he was careless when it came to concealing that fact. He wanted the "brain-dead hicks" to know his name, and to fear it.
"Silas Phoenix," he whispered aloud beneath his breath. He said it again, again, and a fourth time, "Silas Phoenix." The blood trickled down his bearded-face like a snake slithering through a patch of grass. Before long, his hair became drenched with the sticky red substance, and the dirty-blonde pigment had become a distant memory.
His breath smelled of whiskey, and coincidentally, the man dead on the ground owned the town's saloon. He had known this man so little, that even the narrator hadn't a clue of his name, but he watched the blood flow out all the same. The man had slashes and gashes on both sides of his rib-cage. Although, to Silas, he wasn't as much of a man as he was a lifeless carcass for the maggots and mice to feast on.
"How thoughtful am I," Phoenix pondered quietly to himself, not wanting to seem like a loon. He had made enough holes for entry that it'd be a nice little inn for the critters. He wanted to take more time out to marvel at his work, but it was not meant to be. There was no longer time for the happy thoughts that poked and prodded at him, like, ... like, well, like how he had done the dead man not too long ago.
There was an old saying in his family. "You can lead a horse to water, but if they see you killing someone, they'll probably shoot you." Mind you, Silas was fairly sure that they knew all about his crimes and shenanigans, but they were afraid.
He liked it that way.
His eyes glistened and sparkled with a sort of glaze in them, and he stumbled whenever he walked. Admittedly, he might have had just one or two too many drinks from the saloon than what was advised. That was the story for a lot of the people in this town, but he was probably the most notorious drunkard of them all. Slowly, he made his way outside, and watched as the town spun around like a twister.
He offered a burp as his rebuttal, and instead of trying to follow the movements of the dwellings outlining the path, he simply closed his eyes and walked forward. Truth be told, he could tell that he wasn't walking anymore steadily, but for some reason, it settled his stomach quite a bit. Then, abruptly, he met a fork in the road. Or was it a rock? He was drunk and had his eyes shut like a buffoon, he couldn't tell, but he tripped to the ground and landed flat on his face.
He laid lifeless for a time, but at last, he managed to pull himself back to his feet. His cowboy hat flinging itself off of his head, and mud coating the blood.
Then, he opened his eyes.
He saw a black-figure looking back at him. A man, or maybe a woman? He couldn't see for sure, but the creature wore a black-robe. Silas' eyes widened as he backed away with uncertainty.
The encounter ended with Death.
The time went by, slipping away like grains of sand from the top of an hour-glass, and the roosters made their presence known. The civilians awoke to their feet, and were welcomed by a bright-shiny day, the birds singing gleefully, and came to discover a fact. Silas Phoenix, the town's most infamous criminal, was dead. He had died in the dead of night from drunkenly falling and driving a shard of bottle into his chest.
The black-cloud over them had evaporated and dissolved, like it had never been there. The devil’s waltz was over, and so, they danced.
Cha-Cha-Cha!
Word Count: 884
Feedback: I want to know whether or not it flows well, and if the dark subject-matter is positively contrasted by the comic-relief. Did it keep your attention? Would you read other stories about the Silas Phoenix character?
Author's Comments: I can't actually remember the day that I wrote this story, but I remember that it was after watching a Western movie. I believe that I was watching the original True Grit, but I remember that I didn't enjoy it very much. It just wasn't my style, and I think that will show in this short-story. I believe that I wrote this after finishing my first novel, which is about a serial-killer, and I think I brought a lot of the same demented imagery into it. I wouldn't call it one of my best short-stories because I don't really know a whole lot about Westerns, but I do think that it's a fun and entertaining story.
There was a time and place, it wasn't far from here and now, some say it was a darker day, but that's only an opinion. It was a time when wrongs helplessly cried out to the heavens yearning for themselves to be rectified, or at the least, to be given a sort of vindication. They looked around, looking for something that could simply make sense out of what was happening. Many times, more often than not, the wrongdoings went without consequence.
They say that some become their most hopeful when almost all has been lost, and so, some believed in karma. They believed that every evildoer's laugh wouldn't be last. Is there actually a method or scheme behind the madness? Can fate really do the devil's waltz? Can it spin its partner round and round, and then send it tumbling back to the ground?
Nobody can say for sure.
But his name was Silas Phoenix, and he was a murderer, an outlaw, and a cold-hearted man. Evil in the meanest way ever concocted. He didn't eat nails for breakfast but once or twice, some say that he made others give it a try. Even the most brutal square-dancers in the Wild West could only begin to fathom his anger, ... and yet his apathy.
Apathy and anger, oxymora or not, he kept them together, ... and yes, hand-in-hand, they dosado.
However, the devil, he was not, you see, because the devil hid beneath the rubble, waiting for the chance to poke and jab with his pitchfork. Everyone knew that Silas Phoenix existed, and he was careless when it came to concealing that fact. He wanted the "brain-dead hicks" to know his name, and to fear it.
"Silas Phoenix," he whispered aloud beneath his breath. He said it again, again, and a fourth time, "Silas Phoenix." The blood trickled down his bearded-face like a snake slithering through a patch of grass. Before long, his hair became drenched with the sticky red substance, and the dirty-blonde pigment had become a distant memory.
His breath smelled of whiskey, and coincidentally, the man dead on the ground owned the town's saloon. He had known this man so little, that even the narrator hadn't a clue of his name, but he watched the blood flow out all the same. The man had slashes and gashes on both sides of his rib-cage. Although, to Silas, he wasn't as much of a man as he was a lifeless carcass for the maggots and mice to feast on.
"How thoughtful am I," Phoenix pondered quietly to himself, not wanting to seem like a loon. He had made enough holes for entry that it'd be a nice little inn for the critters. He wanted to take more time out to marvel at his work, but it was not meant to be. There was no longer time for the happy thoughts that poked and prodded at him, like, ... like, well, like how he had done the dead man not too long ago.
There was an old saying in his family. "You can lead a horse to water, but if they see you killing someone, they'll probably shoot you." Mind you, Silas was fairly sure that they knew all about his crimes and shenanigans, but they were afraid.
He liked it that way.
His eyes glistened and sparkled with a sort of glaze in them, and he stumbled whenever he walked. Admittedly, he might have had just one or two too many drinks from the saloon than what was advised. That was the story for a lot of the people in this town, but he was probably the most notorious drunkard of them all. Slowly, he made his way outside, and watched as the town spun around like a twister.
He offered a burp as his rebuttal, and instead of trying to follow the movements of the dwellings outlining the path, he simply closed his eyes and walked forward. Truth be told, he could tell that he wasn't walking anymore steadily, but for some reason, it settled his stomach quite a bit. Then, abruptly, he met a fork in the road. Or was it a rock? He was drunk and had his eyes shut like a buffoon, he couldn't tell, but he tripped to the ground and landed flat on his face.
He laid lifeless for a time, but at last, he managed to pull himself back to his feet. His cowboy hat flinging itself off of his head, and mud coating the blood.
Then, he opened his eyes.
He saw a black-figure looking back at him. A man, or maybe a woman? He couldn't see for sure, but the creature wore a black-robe. Silas' eyes widened as he backed away with uncertainty.
The encounter ended with Death.
The time went by, slipping away like grains of sand from the top of an hour-glass, and the roosters made their presence known. The civilians awoke to their feet, and were welcomed by a bright-shiny day, the birds singing gleefully, and came to discover a fact. Silas Phoenix, the town's most infamous criminal, was dead. He had died in the dead of night from drunkenly falling and driving a shard of bottle into his chest.
The black-cloud over them had evaporated and dissolved, like it had never been there. The devil’s waltz was over, and so, they danced.
Cha-Cha-Cha!
