PDA

View Full Version : Cha Cha Cha! (900-ish Words, language)



Nicholas McConnaughay
July 6th, 2014, 10:31 PM
Note: This is one of my earlier short-stories, but I decided to post it up.


http://www.weebly.com/uploads/5/2/9/7/5297423/252977142.png



There was a time. There was a place. It was darker.

A time when wrongs helplessly cried out in the blacked skies. They pleaded to the heavens to be rectified. All they wanted was vindication or purpose. Simply to make sense of it all. That is all they ever wanted.

More often than not, wrongdoings went without consequence. Some believe in karma. Some believe that every evildoer's laugh will not be the last. Is there 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-heart man.

Evil in the meanest way ever conceived. He may not have had nails for breakfasts but once or twice, some say 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, hand-in-hand, they dosado.

However, the devil, he was not, you see, for the devil lived incognito. Everyone knew where to find this grisly man. He existed, and he was careless when it came to concealing that fact. That's the only thing that made him wake up at night. He wanted for people to know his name. All of those brain-dead hicks, they needed to fear him.

"Silas Phoenix," he whispered it aloud under his breath. He said it again, again, and a fourth time, "Silas Phoenix." As he did, the blood trickled down his face like a snake slithering through a patch of grass. His beard was drenched a darkened red, contrasting its dirty-blonde pigment.

His breath was fiddled with whisky. Coincidentally, the man dead on the ground owned the town's saloon. He had known this man so little. So little that even the narrator reading hadn't the faintest clue of his name, but he watched the blood trickle out of him just the same. He had slashes and gashes on both sides of his rib-cage, and the man lay unmoving.

Although, to Silas, he wasn't as much of a man as he was a lifeless carcass for maggots and mice to slumber. "How thoughtful am I," Phoenix pondered quietly to himself, not wanting to seem like a look. He had made enough holes for entry that it'd be a nice little inn for the critters. He wanted to spend more time enjoying his work, but alas, 'twas not meant to be. There was no longer time for the happy thoughts that poked and prodded at him, like, ... like, well, like him to that dead man not too long ago.

There was an old saying in his family. "You can lead a horse to water, but if you try to skin that horse. Don't let them see you, because they'll fucking kill you."

His family was never very analytical.

Mind you, Silas was fairly sure that they all knew of his various crimes, but either because they didn't have the proof or because they were afraid, nothing came from it. Silas liked to believe the latter.

His eyes glistened and sparkled with a sort of glaze in them, and he stumbled when he walked. Too many drinks from the old saloon were in him. His stomach was in knots. This town was notorious for drinkers, but none worse than ol' Silas. He made his way outside, watching the town spin around like a dame doing ballet.

He offered a burp as his rebuttal. And instead of trying to follow the movements of the buildings, he closed his eyes and walked forward. It probably didn't help steady his movements, but it settled his stomach quite a bit.

Then, he approached a fork in the road. Or was it a rock? He was drunk and had his eyes shut, he couldn't be too sure. He fell to the ground and landed flat on his face.

"Dammit," Silas yelled out. "Son of a bitch," Silas mumbled under his breath. His knees shook under him as he attempted to find his footing. Part of him wanting to lay where he fell. Ain't like anybody would say.

After a while, longer than Silas cared to admit, he brought himself back up to his feet. His cowboy hat flung itself off his head. That's where it would stay, he thought. Not like he would be able to get it. There was mud dampened his face from how he fell, even over the bartender's blood.

Silas Phoenix rubbed the mud from his face. His eyelids separated, and before him, he saw a black-figure looking back at him. A man, maybe a woman, wearing a black cloak. Silas' eyes widened while he backed away with uncertainty. A hallucination? Silas didn't much care to find out.

The encounter ended with death.

The time went by, and then, the roosters made their presence known. The civilians awoke and clamored. There was a bright-shiny day, the birds chirped with glee, and they all came to discover a fact.

Silas Phoenix, the town's most infamous criminal and most notorious drunk was dead. He had died earlier in the night, apparently from tripping and inadvertently driving the shard of a bottle to his chest.

The black-cloud over them evaporated and dissolved, like it had never been there. The devil's waltz was over, and they were illuminated from the darkness. And they danced.

Cha Cha Cha!

J.T. Chris
July 7th, 2014, 01:32 AM
It's strong writing. Nothing much happens though. He's drunk and the bottle literally kills him. A bit cliche to be honest.

Try making Silas more relatable, toss a few rocks at him, and then have him give up the drink. Or don't. Make the experience worthwhile for him at least.

Nicholas McConnaughay
July 7th, 2014, 03:41 AM
It's strong writing. Nothing much happens though. He's drunk and the bottle literally kills him. A bit cliche to be honest.

Try making Silas more relatable, toss a few rocks at him, and then have him give up the drink. Or don't. Make the experience worthwhile for him at least.
I doubt I'll fix it up, but I definitely appreciate your feedback. I wrote this in my Freshman year of high-school for class. (I have since graduated)

I didn't want to make it too long because of that.

I want to redo the story in a novelette sometime next year. Not really anything in-particular, but I want to do a classic western kind-of thing.

Thanks for reading!

Cha!

J.T. Chris
July 7th, 2014, 03:45 AM
I see western. Has a McCarthy vibe. Not bad for 9th grade. Cheers.