Short Stories & Poetry

I've written a few short stories and even one poem over the last couple of years. The majority of my short stories have been takeoffs or rewrites of songs. Here are a couple of them, one dark and one not so dark but equally as tragic. This first story and the final poem are both a decided departure from my usual writing...

“Welcome to the Hotel Arcadia”

The sun had long since disappeared in a blaze of red and orange in his rearview mirror but still he kept driving. Ahead lay an unknown future; behind lay nothing but loss and pain. He’d left the cemetery and the fresh graves of his wife and daughter two days ago; the expressions of sympathy, and the empty words, still echoed in his brain. And this morning he’d started driving east.

By sunset he was deep in the desert. At seventy per the wind ruffling his hair and tugging at his clothes was cool, bordering on cold. He vaguely remembered stopping for gas a couple of times, and eating something from a vending machine. Now it was nearing midnight and he was exhausted from the whirl of his thoughts. Still, all he wanted was to run, to get away from the sympathy and the smothering presence of all those who ‘just want to help’.

A long straight section of highway stretched out in the car’s headlights, the white lines flickering past hypnotically. The last car he’d met had been an hour ago and he was starting to feel like the last man alive though he knew, logically, that it was impossible. But the world isn’t always logical and the feeling persisted.

A distant, flickering pinpoint of light caught his eye. At first he thought it was a star low on the horizon. But no, it couldn’t be, it was too low, too close to the ground to be celestial. It had to be something earthly. As he watched the light gradually grow in size, the swirling in his brain slowly ground to a stop like a machine with sand in the gears. His eyelids grew heavy and he blinked back the urge to sleep.

Suddenly the light was there in front of him, lighting a sun-blasted billboard. Two of the billboard’s light standards had already given up their battle with the elements, and the third appeared to be losing ground rapidly. He brought the car to a stop and shut off the engine to peer through the bug-spattered windshield. The ticks and pings of cooling metal sang soft counterpoint to a chorus of crickets in the night as he squinted to make out the words in front of him. Why he had stopped the car, and why he sat trying to read the billboard, he never stopped to consider. It was just something he felt the need to do. So he sat and stared, trying to make out what was written there.

A faded red arrow pointed across the highway to his left. Below the arrow, in a Gothic script, was written the words “Hotel Arcadia” followed by a blotchy, unreadable jumble of paint and tattered paper. He sat for a moment, lost and motionless. Seemingly of its own volition his right hand moved to the steering column and turned the key. The whine of the starter and the sudden rumble of the engine startled him, bringing him back from some distant place he didn’t remember going to. An unfamiliar place, a place he was ready to return to, if only to relieve the pain. He slid the transmission into Drive and turned across the asphalt, pulled into the road that appeared in front of him, and accelerated into the night.

Behind him the light flared in satisfaction then faded to black. The billboard disappeared into the velvety darkness and the sound of the wind became, for a moment, a sibilant hiss.

At first the road was smooth, unbroken asphalt, and the hum of the tires was soothing. But the further he traveled the more uneven and broken the road became until the surface degenerated into gravel. A tall dust plume trailed behind the car, flickering red in the taillights. As he topped a rise a rambling three-story building came into sight. Lights glimmered in some of the windows, and shadows crossed the golden rectangles. Shadows that seemed to sway with a life of their own.

He stopped the car in front of a tall set of double doors that stood open to the desert night. There was a dim glow of light from within. The trailing dust cloud settled around him, drifting in the open windows of the car and making him cough for a moment. He opened the door and stepped out of the car. He walked toward the open doors, leaving the car door swinging wide and the key alarm beeping. He shook himself and turned back and kicked the door shut, silencing the alarm. He looked around, taking in the rundown appearance of the building and its surroundings, and wondered why he had come here. But he only wondered for a moment.

His eyes turned back to the tall doors in front of him. The carvings on the dark wood seemed to move in the low flickering light that came from inside. Viscerally, he felt that it would be unsafe to look too closely at was depicted there, yet his eyes were drawn there. With a visible effort of will he locked his gaze on the light inside then he climbed three stone steps and entered what had to be the lobby.

The woman behind the counter was strikingly beautiful. Her glossy jet black hair hung in a rippled cascade to her waist, and a blood red rose was tucked behind her left ear. She was slender, with delicate wrists and long, tapered fingers that she held laced together at her slim waist. Her complexion was ghostly pale, highlighted by the shadows under her dark eyes. If she wore makeup it had been so artfully applied as to appear nonexistent. Her gossamer gown was pale lavender and hid what it appeared about to reveal, and seemed to flow in the gentle breeze from the open door. She stood without moving. Her full, pale lips were parted in a sad, gentle smile.

He approached the desk in front of her, where a large book stood open alongside an old-fashioned quill pen and inkwell. The book was old; the pages were yellowed and tattered at the corners. A small part of his brain thought this was odd, while the remainder pushed it aside. Incongruous coming from such a slender and lovely throat, her voice was deep and husky as she greeted him. The sound of it sent tremors coursing through his body. “Welcome to the Hotel Arcadia. How may I help you?”

“I’d like a room and a meal, if it’s available.” His throat was dry and parched and his voice came out cracked and rusty sounding.

“Of course. If you would please sign in…” She indicated the book with a graceful wave of her hand. He took the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed his name. The scratching of the nib was loud in the relative silence of the high-ceilinged room. He replaced the pen and looked up at her as he straightened. Her dark, luminous eyes met his and he felt himself falling into their depths as into pools of dark water. Deep inside those pools there was a hint of furtive movement.

With a shake he drew himself back and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her sad smile dimmed for a moment and she turned away and picked up a large, white candle in a silver sconce. She lit the candle then said in that remarkable voice that sent chills shooting up his spine once again, “Please. Follow me.” She moved toward a curving staircase he hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. She seemed to glide over the worn, threadbare carpet, barely touching it, her gown hardly rippling as she preceded him. Mesmerized, he followed, unable to see any movement of feet and legs as she ascended.

He followed the candlelight down a dimly lit hallway as she floated ahead of him. The fact that he had no luggage didn’t seem to matter. As he walked, he was sure that he heard voices drifting around him, voices that said softly, “Welcome. Welcome...”

“Wait,” he said. She stopped and turned, and looked back at him.

“Yes?”

“Where are the voices coming from?”

“Voices?”

“Yes, voices. Welcoming me.”

For a moment her arching brows were knit in confusion then her expression cleared. “Oh, those voices. Come with me.” She led the way to a nearby window, beyond which orange light flickered. Looking down, he saw a great bonfire.The flames bounded high and sparks danced like fireflies on the thermals rising above the roaring heat. Encircling the fire, linked hand in hand, a group of people, all young men, were swaying and chanting. Their feet were moving in time to a beat that it appeared only they could hear. Shadows leaped across the stone courtyard, and danced across the sweating faces of those who sang. “It’s just my friends,” she said softly. “They always welcome new visitors. Perhaps later you can meet some of them. But come, you’re exhausted. Let me show you to your room.”

As if her words were a cue, his eyelids drooped even further, and waves of bone-deep weariness washed over him. The question he had been about to ask about the fire and the dancers was forgotten. He suddenly felt as if his feet were made of lead, and it was all he could do to make his body move down the corridor. At last she stopped in front of a door and turned the cut glass knob. The door swung open silently and she stepped aside, waving him into the room. Across the room a canopied bed beckoned him on. It was done in the same shade of lavender as her dress and the coverlet was turned down to reveal satiny sheets that gleamed in the candlelight.

A champagne bucket stood near the head of the bed with water droplets forming on the bottle that lay nestled in the ice. The cork lay on the table next to the bucket and a pair of crystal flutes stood ready. The ceiling was mirrored. Dark velvet draperies stood open to either side of the bed and their gauzy sheers were pulled across to cover tall windows through which the orange light from the fire in the courtyard shone. She placed the candle on the table near the ice bucket and moved to the windows and pulled the drapes closed, blocking out the light. She poured champagne and offered him a glass.

Mechanically, he took the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. Her skin was cold and he recoiled slightly at the touch as some small, sane part of his mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings. But it was to no avail, and the small voice was overridden by the power of her presence and of the voices that seemed now to be not just in the room, but also in him. He drank from the flute she handed him where he sat on the edge of the bed. The deep, soft mattress reached out to him. He kicked off his shoes. He finished the bubbling wine and placed the glass on the table with a soft clink then reached for the buttons of his shirt. He had forgotten for the moment that he was not alone.

Before he could slip the first button loose he heard her say, “Never mind about that. Just sleep,” and felt her hand on his chest. She pushed gently and he fell back. As he fell he heard her say, “Pleasant dreams.” He fell for a very long time.

His dreams were anything but pleasant. He found himself in the courtyard, among the dancers whose sweating flesh glowed in the light of the fire. Their shuffling feet brought up a choking cloud of dust and he could barely see. “What are you doing? Why are you dancing?” he asked in his dream.

The faces turned his way and their mouths were moving but he got no answer, only the chant of “Welcome. Welcome.” He reached out his hand toward the dancers but before he could touch the shoulder of the man in front of him the world lurched and he found himself inside a room so large that shadows hid the walls. In the center of the stone floor crackling flames leaped and sputtered in a stone fire pit and tendrils of acrid smoke twisted and danced as they were drawn up through a hole in the ceiling. A shuddering scream shocked him into motion around the fire pit. There beyond the pit, to his dismay, the dancers from the courtyard were gathered around something. Something living that snarled and spat. Something with fangs and claws that was chained to an iron ring set in the floor. Chained with links that groaned and creaked as the thing strained to reach its attackers.

As he watched, one of the dancers darted in, knife in hand, and struck, cutting a gash in the flank of the beast. As the creature turned, clawed paw swinging, the dancer slipped away out of reach as one of his companions struck from the other side. Over and over this went on. The beast was never quite able to reach its tormentors until one of the dancers slipped on the blood that had puddled on the floor. The beast was on the dancer in a heartbeat and the dancer was torn apart, screaming. The beast ignored those around it and lowered its head to feed.

Raising its head with a triumphant shriek, the beast looked directly at him, blood dripping from its whiskered muzzle, and time stood still as the voice of the beast thundered in his brain. “Run! If you value your life, run! Their fate will be yours if you do not. Go while you are able, or remain here forever.”

Startled, he looked at the creature. Its eyes glowed in the firelight. He fumbled for reason, trying to dredge up some semblance of sanity in the insane world he had suddenly found himself in but he found his grasp on himself rapidly slipping away. “RUN!” the voice thundered in his brain once more, and time once again began to move. He turned away and his gaze was drawn to his feet. Where a moment before he had been barefoot, now he found that he had his shoes on. He looked wildly about and saw the dim outline of a door on the far wall. Frantically he ran, legs churning, around the fire pit toward that outline. The cut crystal of the knob glittered in the fire lit darkness and he reached out his hand, willing himself to go faster.

He came to a crashing halt against the door, his hand grasping the knob and turning. He yanked the door open and found himself in the corridor outside his room. Looking back into the room he could dimly see the outline of the four-poster. Overlaying it was the frenzied scene he had just escaped from. He slammed the door and ran toward the stairs back to the ground floor. He seemed to run for an eternity, his footsteps soundless on the carpet of the hallway, until at last he came to the staircase. He practically leaped down the stairs, one hand on the banister. He came breathlessly into the lobby and turned toward the double doors he knew would take him outside.

But the doors had vanished; the wall was a featureless blank. He turned to the counter, to find the woman and ask her where the doors were. Behind the counter was a lean, cadaverous individual in a worn tuxedo whose mouth twitched up in a ghastly smile.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Where is whom?”

“The woman. Where is she?”

“Why do you seek her?”

“I want out. Now. She can show me the way.”

“Relax,” the skeletal fellow said. “Our visitors may check out, but…” He held up his hands in a “what can I do” gesture.

A tall, narrow window stood beside a spindly potted palm whose fronds were tattered and dry and rustled in the breeze that came from everywhere and nowhere. An oak table with clawed feet stood nearby. Without a second thought he took up the table and swung it over his head. As the night clerk shrieked, “NOOO!!!” he threw the table with all his strength through the window. He followed it out into the night as the inrush of air tried to pull him back, invisible fingers tugging and plucking at his clothes. Outside, his car stood where he had left it and he rushed to the driver’s door, pulling it open and falling into his seat.

He slammed the door, hitting the lock button, and reached for the ignition. Outside the car the wind shrieked and buffeted, attempting to gain entry, to take him back. He fumbled for his keys, intending to start the car and escape, but the starter ground for a moment then was silent. Suddenly bone-weary, he slumped back against the back of the seat with his head against the headrest. His eyes closed as his world went black.

He awoke with the sun in his eyes. The white light made him squint and he brought his hands up to rub his eyes. When he had arrived at the Hotel Arcadia, he had been clean-shaven; now his questing fingers found several days worth of stubble on his cheeks. He brought his watch up in front of his eyes, to see the date. He had come here on Monday; his watch said it was now Friday.

He slumped back against the seat with his eyes closed and his mind reeling then sat bolt upright. He looked wildly through the dirty windshield for the hotel, or whatever it was, he had escaped from. There in front of him were the weathered, fire-blackened remains of a once great structure, its charred timbers like the stumps of rotting teeth protruding from the eroded ruins. Sand had drifted over the ruins, lying in great banks in sheltered corners.

Cautiously, he unlocked the door and stepped out of the car, careful to keep one hand on the open door. He looked around for any sign of the dancers, or the lady, but the only movement was the rolling of tumbleweeds in the fitful breeze. He moved away from the car slowly and walked to the stone steps that he was sure he had walked on only last night, though the calendar on his watch said otherwise. The stone was weathered and worn, and lichens grew in the crevices. It seemed as though no one had been here in years.

From the landing he looked around but all was barren and deserted. Beyond where he was sure the desk had been, he could see a small corner of the stone courtyard where the dancers had bade him welcome; the rest was nearly covered by drifted sand. He thought he could see a small vestige of the blackened area where the bonfire had been but he wasn’t sure, and, shaking his head, he turned away. The breeze curled around him, urging him to move into the ruins, but he raised his head and said defiantly, “No. I will not become one of them.” The breeze faded away in defeat and he returned to the car.

Seated behind the wheel once again, he reached for the ignition. The car started immediately and he backed around and turned to face the road back to reality. He moved the gearshift to Drive and accelerated into the sunlight. Behind him, the voices of the dancers moaned among the ruins of the Hotel Arcadia for a moment then lapsed into silence.

THE END

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“Tell Bonnie I Love Her…”

            Jordan Crosby rode out of Hays City, on the dun horse that had carried him there, in the dim predawn light. The streets were empty as he walked the big horse towards the city limits, not looking back, afraid that if he did, he would see his beautiful Bonnie watching him, and he'd never be able to leave. But at the same time, he knew that if he didn't leave, it was only a matter of time until some gun-happy punk found him, and he'd have to kill or be killed, and he'd be on the run again.
            As he rode, his thoughts were on last evening’s events. He'd gone to the post office in the afternoon to mail a letter, and there, on a poster on the wall, had been his own face looking back at him. He had been living here for over a year under an assumed name, and had never carried a gun during that time. But after seeing his face and his real name posted on the wall, he knew he would have to leave.
            Breaking the news to Bonnie had nearly killed him, but now he was riding toward Mexico. He'd explained to Bonnie that he knew a big rancher down there who would put him up for a while, and with the money he had saved, he would find them a place. As soon as he was settled, he would send for her.
            As he rode, Jordan Crosby thought back to his past. He'd always been fast with a gun, and many a man had found out just how fast, but it was a lesson that none had lived to profit from. He'd often "sold his gun", as the saying went, just to have a place to sleep out of the weather and regular meals. For years, he'd lived with essentially no conscience, killing men with no more qualms than he'd feel about stepping on an insect. But then he'd met Bonnie.

            Bonnie Rawls was a storekeeper's daughter, who had been raised to respect human life. When Jordan met her, he was on the run, traveling under an assumed name, and riding a stolen horse. He was dusty and tired from the trail, and just looking for a place to hole up, when he saw her. She was sweeping the boardwalk in front of her father's store, and at the sound of his horse’s hooves, she looked up, their eyes meeting. She was tall, nearly as tall as his own six-foot height, with long brown hair swept up on top of her head, flashing hazel eyes, and finely wrought features. Her gingham dress was molded to a fine figure, and to Jordan's eyes, she was the most beautiful creature on the face of the planet.
           What Bonnie Rawls saw was a completely different picture. The man on the dun horse was dressed in a dirty black hat, collarless blue shirt, and canvas pants. His red neckerchief was faded by the sun to a dark pink, and his canvas suspenders were frayed. His boots were down at the heel, with spurs with big California rowels and carved straps. Only his gunbelts looked well cared for, and the pair of well-worn Colts in their tied-down holsters, though scarred with use, were clean. The Winchester protruding from the scabbard under his leg was clean and well oiled as well. He sat the slick-fork saddle on the tired dun horse as if born to it. Still, in spite of his appearance, there was something about this stranger that brought a stirring of awareness to her.
            Bonnie Rawls was twenty-one years old, and unmarried. In the eyes of many, this made her an "old maid", in a time when many women had families by the age of twenty-one. Bonnie had had her share of beaus, but none had stirred her heart like one look at this stranger had done. She told herself she was only being silly, but something about this dusty stranger made her want to know him better.
            The same feeling had arisen in Jordan, and he had tipped his hat and ridden on down the street, vowing he would change his life, and would win the girl if it was the last thing he did. He put his horse up at the nearest livery, and found a hotel and a hot bath. As he scraped the dark bristles off his cheeks, he couldn't help but remember the way she looked, with the sun shining on her hair, and sparkling in her eyes.
            When Jordan returned to the store later, his guns stayed in his hotel room. He had changed into clean, though somewhat rumpled, clothes, and had brushed the dust from his hat as best he could. When he came through the door, Bonnie was behind the counter, waiting on an old lady who was buying fabric. Bonnie’s flashing hazel eyes met his, and his heart skipped a beat.
            The old lady left with her purchase, leaving the two of them alone. "May I help you, Mister..."
            "Crosswell, miss, John Crosswell. I need a few things. It's been a long time since I've been in a town, and I've run short of some of the essentials. I could also use some new garments. And would you by chance happen to know where a fellow could find gainful employment?"
            "I'm sure my father would know of "gainful employment”, Mr. Crosswell. What sort of employment are you looking for?" She smiled at him, causing his heart to race.
            "At this point, I can't really afford to be particular, Miss, uh..."
            She laughingly held out her hand. " Bonnie Rawls, Mister Crosswell. This is my father's store."
            He raised her hand to his lips, brushing it lightly with a kiss. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rawls." She blushed, pulling her hand back shyly. It wasn't often she met a man who practiced such a genteel manner. She found herself trying to reconcile this gentleman with the dusty hardcase she had seen in the street a few short hours ago.
            Over the ensuing months, Jordan Crosby and Bonnie Rawls became first friends, then more than friends. Jordan had found a job with a cattle buyer at the stockyards, and was soon managing the
business. His expertise with livestock made him a shrewd bargainer, and in a matter of months, his boss had become his partner.
            By this time, Jordan was living in a comfortable house a few blocks from Bonnie's father's store, and he often dropped by to take her out for a noon meal. They were seen at many of the social events around the city, and no one who watched the happy couple together could tell that Jordan's past was a bit unsavory, to say the least. And then he had seen the poster on the post office wall.
            Returning to his house, Jordan had sat for several minutes, thinking. A month ago, he had sat Bonnie down and told her about his past. Some parts of it he had glossed over, but he had told her the gist of it, and her only comment had been that he was no longer that person. And now, tonight, he had planned to ask her to marry him. The velvet box in his pocket held a diamond ring, and he had felt that now was the time. Until the poster. Now all he could think about was the possibility that Bonnie might be in danger when she was with him, and that was a risk he was not prepared to take.
            At last he got to his feet, and put on his hat. It was time to go and meet Bonnie for dinner, but this dinner would be much different than he had originally planned.
            Jordan knocked on the Rawls' door as he had many times in the past few months. When Bonnie's mother came to the door, Jordan politely removed his hat, and greeted her with a bouquet of flowers. "My compliments, ma'am. May I come in?"
            Mrs. Rawls laughed, "Why of course you may, John. You're not a total stranger here, you know. And thank you for the flowers. They were unnecessary, but thank you." She bustled away to put the flowers in some water as Jordan stepped into the front hall, and closed the door behind him. In a moment, he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the swish of skirts as Bonnie came from the upper floor. He couldn't help but notice her gentle perfume, which preceded her down the stairs, and his heart beat faster, as it always did whenever he was around her. He forced a smile as Bonnie came to where he stood, kissing him on the cheek.
"You look lovely tonight, Bonnie."
           "Why thank you, John," she said. "I'll just get my wrap, and let Mother know we're leaving, and we can be going." Bonnie returned in a moment, and Jordan opened the door for her, following her out onto the porch and closing the door behind them.
            When they reached the street, Jordan said, "It's such a nice evening, I thought we'd walk, if you don't mind." She answered in the affirmative, and the couple strolled arm in arm down the walk, looking for all the world as if they had not a care. But Jordan was troubled, and was finding it difficult to concentrate on Bonnie's normally engaging conversation as she told him about her day.
            They came to the restaurant, and went inside. They were escorted to a table, and Jordan sat with his back to the wall, facing both the door they had come in, and the kitchen door. Old habits died hard. As the waiter left them with menus, Bonnie reached over and laid her hand on his. "What's wrong, John? You're so quiet this evening."
            He decided to tell her straight out, and not sugar coat it. “Something's come up, Bonnie. I have to go away for a while."
            "What do you mean?" she asked.
            "You know a great deal about my past, Bonnie," he said. "But you don't know it all. There are some parts only I and the dead will ever know. I had hoped that it would not, but my past has caught up with me. Tonight I saw a wanted poster with my face on it. I don’t know who may have put up the reward, but it is there nonetheless. I know how these things go. Eventually, word will get out that I am in the city, and when that happens, every gun-handy drifter in the country will be coming to claim the reward. And I can't allow you to be hurt if something happens." He stopped, waiting for her reaction.
            She looked at him solemnly for nearly a minute, as the regulator clock on the restaurant wall ticked away the seconds. At last she said, "Alright, John, if that's how it must be, then go. Immediately. Find some place safe, where we can be together, and I will join you there. But go you must. I've waited all my life for the right man to come along, and I won't lose him now that I've found him. I love you, John Crosswell, and because I love you, I must let you go."
            Jordan exhaled slowly, not realizing he had been holding his breath. "I love you too, Miss Bonnie Rawls. I know a rancher down in Mexico I can go to, and he'll help me find us a place. As soon as I get settled, I'll send for you. I'll go in the morning."
            The couple ordered dinner, but neither was in a mood to eat, and most of the food went untasted as the couple contemplated their coming separation. At last, Jordan called for the check, and helped Bonnie on with her wrap. They left the restaurant, and walked without speaking back to her house. Standing on the wide porch, Jordan reached into his pocket. "There's one other thing, Bonnie. If you are to join me, it must be proper." He brought out the ring box, and opened it, going down on one knee. Holding out the small velvet box, he said, "Miss Bonnie Rawls, will you marry me?"
            Bonnie took a deep breath, and reached out her hand, taking his and drawing him to his feet. "Of course I will, John. Was there any doubt?" Jordan placed the ring on her finger, and kissed her hand. “Now go, and find us a place. And please, be careful."
            "I will," he promised. "And I'll send for you as soon as I can." Jordan returned home, and gathered what he would need for the trip to Mexico.
            The big dun horse was well-rested and fat. He'd been lounging for months, with good feed and water, and only the occasional trip to survey a cattle herd John was thinking of buying. The dun was also a horse who liked to travel, and so he tugged at the bit, wanting to go, but Jordan held him in. "Easy, boy. We've got a lot of miles to travel, you'd better save your strength."
            Jordan knew he should be concentrating on the trail, and what lay ahead, but all he could think about was Bonnie, waiting back in Hays City. Sunrise found him twenty miles from there, holding away from the main trails, not wanting to see anyone, or be seen by anyone. Aside from the dun, the only thing moving was the occasional dust devil, winding its way through the grass, then dying as the breeze abandoned it. Jordan rode grimly on, determined to get across the border and find a home for himself and the woman he loved.
            Days later, Jordan found himself on the outskirts of a small Texas border town, just as the sun was setting. The dun was no longer fat, and he himself was trailworn and dirty. He'd been living on what meat he could shoot and the supplies he had brought from Hays City, wanting to avoid towns, but at last his supplies were gone, and he decided to take a chance on coming into the town.
            Jordan walked the dun down the main street, his hand on his thigh close to his holstered gun. The brim of his hat was pulled down, and his eyes glinted as he watched all around. There ahead was a livery stable, and he reined the dun to a stop in front of it. He sat for a moment, bone-weary, then stepped down from the saddle. As his feet came to earth, a voice behind him hissed from the shadows, "Jordan Crosby! Keep your hands where I can see 'em, or I'll shoot you down like the dog you are."
            "You have the advantage of me, sir. What is it you want?"
            "There's a reward on you, Crosby, dead or alive. An' I aim to collect." So there it was. A bounty hunter. He should have known. But it went against the grain to go down without a fight. Jordan tensed, readying himself to make his move. As he turned, and reached for his gun, he heard the report and felt the bullet as it smashed into him. Still, he tried to draw, but his muscles refused to obey his brain’s commands. As he sagged to the ground, his sight dimming, he saw the man's back moving away. A crowd was gathering around where Jordan lay, people murmuring. Though such happenings were relatively common, still everyone wondered what had been the cause of the gunplay.
            As the bounty hunter disappeared into the mist that had inexplicably risen in front of the dying man’s eyes, Jordan's last thought was of Bonnie, and of the home they would now never have. He tried to speak, and one of the bystanders bent down, trying to hear what the dying man had to say. Jordan's hand caught the man's sleeve, drawing him near as a rivulet of blood began to trickle from the corner of Jordan's mouth. "Tell Bonnie I love her, and I tried." His head dropped to the ground, and the grip on the man's sleeve relaxed as Jordan Crosby died.

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Locked up in myself

I am locked up in myself.
The outside world that once was my reality has receded in the distance,
Peopled by phantoms whose voices echo
Through the tangled forests and ruined cities
I am forced to hide in.

The voices around me are screaming.
I pack my ears with moss from the trees
That reach out for me as I run,
But the voices come through.
Nothing I can do will stop them.

Around me, those who profess to want to help me are speaking,
But their words hold no meaning.
The trees of the forests and the walls of the buildings
Shatter the sounds, and the words become a part
Of the shouts and laughter that follow me.

At night, the wolves bay at the gibbous moon
And I hide, unsure of where I am
And unable to find sanctuary,
Never knowing when they will find me,
Sure that it is only a matter of time.

Time stretches and contracts,
The days and nights part and parcel of one another.
The laughing face of the moon mocks me as the wolves howl.
My family reaches out, striving to help me return,
But instead drive me further into the uncharted reaches, my fears hounding me.

I am surrounded by darkness, and struggle always toward the light,
Knowing that if I can touch it for just a moment,
I will be free of this dark place.
But my struggles are in vain, for I am trapped beyond all succor.

I am locked up in myself.