Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand III

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The gunslinger woke with a start. He whipped out his pistols, pointing in all directions. His vision cleared and he realised he was alone. He gazed around the saloon. A shaft of moonlight fell across the floor beneath the swing doors. Empty glasses sat like islands in the sea of dust covering the tables.

The gunslinger hauled himself out of his chair and crossed the room. His boots knocked hollow against the wooden floorboards. He pushed open the doors, and the creak screeched in the eerie silence of the street.

The gunslinger walked out onto the verandah. He expected to see the soiled doves displaying their wares for drunken cowboys, or gamblers stumbling from one saloon to the next. At least one brawl should have spilled out into the street. The gunslinger saw and heard no one. Not even the howl of a plains coyote drifted on the night air.

The gunslinger walked down the street. He looked at the empty buildings, peering through windows and poking his head around doors. He wanted to call out but he realised he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know any names to call. A breeze gusted down the street, and cards skittered around his feet. He bent to pick them up. Two aces, two eights and a Queen. The memory of a gun shot crashed in his ears as he looked at the bloodstained cards.

I must be dreamin’, he thought.

He reached the railroad. A black horse stood alone in the middle of the square in front of the shack that served as a station. It whinnied when it saw him, and nodded its head. The gunslinger walked over to the horse, marvelling at the sheen on its midnight coat. He ran his fingers through its dark mane, the silver streaks sparkling like starlight in his hands.

“Who do you belong to, big fella?” asked the gunslinger.

The horse turned his head and nodded at the fine leather saddle on its back. The gunslinger shrugged, put his foot in the stirrup, and boosted himself up. He swung his leg over the horse’s back and settled into the saddle. The stallion whinnied again, and set off at a trot. They set off over the railroad tracks. The gunslinger spotted a wooden sign beside the rails. Hand painted letters spelled out the name ‘Sticks’.

At least I know where I’m leavin’, he thought.

He tried to guide the horse but the stallion stayed true. The gunslinger gave up hauling at the reins and sat back in the saddle, watching the moonlit plain go by. The horse broke into a gallop, and ran towards the hills that rose from the plain like sleeping levianthans.

The gunslinger held tight to the reins as the horse careered down a path into a narrow valley. Skeletal trees clung to the sheer rock walls on either side, and the stallion’s hooves kicked up a fine spray of pebbles and sand.

The horse came to an abrupt halt as the valley widened into a small quarry. A young woman sat bareback on a pearl grey horse. Her black lips broke into a grin, and she waved as the black stallion brought the gunslinger nearer.

“You’ve made it!” she exclaimed. Her voice buzzed with a millennia of rot.

“Who are you? Where am I?” asked the gunslinger.

“Well you’re Wild Bill Hickok, and you’ve just come through the valley,” replied the young woman. Stars glittered in the depths of her midnight eyes.

“Care to explain that to me, little miss?”

“Why don’t you ride with me?”

The young woman rode down the trail away from Wild Bill. The black horse trotted after, flicking his tail. Wild Bill stared at the young woman when the horses drew level. The horses whinnied a greeting to one another.

“See, you have to understand that you’re dead,” she said.

Wild Bill stared at her in disbelief, unsure he had heard her correctly.

“I know, I know, it’s a lot to take in at once. But you’re dead. You’ve been dead for quite some time but that hasn’t stopped you wandering about through time, has it?”

“The cards...”

“Yes. Those blasted cards. You’ve been disrupting the timeline, shooting anyone that got the Dead Man’s Hand - or at least ensuring they got shot themselves. I’ve been trying to catch up with you for a while now.”

“So you’re....” Wild Bill’s blue eyes widened.

“Death. Yes. And you’ve been rather upsetting my system.”

The trail led into a lush meadow. Moths flickered above the emerald grass, their wings reflecting the light of the stars overhead. The sound of running water and laughter filled the air. Shades of people long gone drifted to and fro, pausing to converse with each other, the echoes of their voices reaching through the ages. Wild Bill recognised some of them as people he’d shot.

“I like you, really, I do. You’re one of the Universe’s true characters, Mr Hickok. But it’s time for you to find some peace now,” said Death.

“I guess I am kinda tired,” said Wild Bill. He stroked his moustache as he gazed across the meadow. His body convulsed in a deep yawn.

“You rest now. Leave the death side of things to me.”

“Alright, miss. I guess you know best and all.”

Death leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. Wild Bill’s eyes closed for the final time.

* * *

This is the final installment of a loose trilogy based around the Dead Man's Hand, the hand of cards allegedly held by infamous gunfighter Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in the back while playing poker in a Deadwood saloon on August 2, 1876.

Part I : Part II

Why I Write

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I keep meaning to write some kind of blog post on why I write. I normally trot out the same old schlock about how I've always written, and it's never really occurred to me not to. Stories pop into my head and I write them down. As the meerkat would say, "Simples."

However, while that is still true, I think it does go deeper than that. After all, I've always been able to run but it doesn't mean I do (I don't, as it happens. I prefer swimming and Pilates as forms of exercise. Running looks so...ungainly) Yesterday I posted the link to my story, The Sought After Smile, which had been published in the new issue of Luna Station Quarterly. The link was shared on Facebook (seriously, what did we do before social networking?) and someone posted a comment to say it had really cheered them up after a crap day. You know what I did? I smiled (and I am not an inherently cheerful person).

Do you know how ace that feels, to know that something you wrote actually helped to improve someone else's day? That a simple work of fiction could cheer someone up in just a few moments? Ah, escapism. You can't beat it. I suppose I whiled away many a lonely hour as a child, caught up in an Enid Blyton adventure or whizzing through another Roald Dahl, and if I'm completely honest, I still seek solace in books now. To my mind, if I can provide someone with a few moments away from the troubles and stresses of their existence, then that is a job well done.

Yes, it's true. I have no lofty pretensions to creating high art, to leaving a literary legacy that will see schoolchildren pore over my work 200 years from now, to winning awards or changing the world - no, I just want to entertain people. I like to think I'm more Guillermo del Toro than Michael Bay, but the intention is much the same.

Of course, that's not the ONLY reason I write. At the moment, I'm working on a Western novella, tentatively titled Guns of Retribution, about a bounty hunter named Gray O'Donnell. I've written the first draft, and I'm now polishing the rough edges before I send it to my completely awesome beta readers. I'm a natural pedant so if a plot point sticks out like a sore thumb to me, I assume it'll be a red flag to others, so I won't put anything out in front of people until all the narrative logic has been resolved. Now, for one reason and another, I've had to take a couple of breaks from redrafting, and I finally got back into it on Monday night. Re-reading the opening scene, I almost cried - it was like being back among old friends again. Sure, they're imaginary friends, but they're friends all the same.

Writing is an inherently solitary path, but in a perverse kind of way, we're never really alone. We're constantly living out adventures in our heads, chatting to people we've invented, and endlessly creating new places and things. Of course, if most people say they hear voices, they're considered insane, but writers are exempt from this particular social convention.

Good thing, too. I wouldn't dare tell Liss Hunt to shut up.

Submission success

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Greetings, citizens.

I'm rather chuffed to announce the publication of a couple of my pieces - Unforgettable was picked up by Escape into Life, while The Sought After Smile is now live on Luna Station Quarterly!

Now, down to brass tacks. My post on how to cope with rejection over on Fuel Your Writing seems to have struck a chord, but now I'm planning one on how to approach the submission process in the first place. Where to look for titles, how to decide what to submit - that sort of thing. I know it can be daunting and confusing, and I want to try and help you to make it as hassle-free as possible.

So here's where you come in. If you're never submitted before and you have any questions, leave me a comment and I'll try to make sure I answer any questions in the article itself!

Photo Prompt 22

Tweet Twenty-second prompt, ready and waiting.

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The twenty-second prompt is Parrots.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand II

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Parker sat at the computer, watching the cards flick up on the screen. A pair of nines, a pair of threes, and a seven. Not bad. Good job he ditched the five and the Jack. Still, RickyBoy364 had four eights and a two, so he won the hand.

"LOLZ P-Diddy47. Do u want me 2 take all yr $$?" The writing appeared in the chat box at the bottom of the game screen. Parker grimaced. RickyBoy364 always taunted him when Parker lost a hand.

Parker checked his account. He still had $80 left of his original stake. He pressed the button to chip in for the next hand. His cards flipped up. An ace, a four, an eight, a ten, and a Queen. Not brilliant. More writing appeared in the chat box. Jasmine277 asked if anyone had time to give her relationship advice between hands. Newbie23 complained about his bad luck with poker. Parker scowled at the poor bluff.

"Parker? Are you home?"

His mother's voice drifted through his open bedroom door.

"Yeah, Mom," called Parker.

He clicked on the ace, eight and Queen to hold them. Parker didn't really have much hope, and clicking at random seemed to work as well as having a clear strategy.

"Could you help me unload the car?" called Parker's mother.

Parker sighed. He typed 'afk' in the chat box and pressed 'deal' before getting up to leave his room. The new cards flicked into place as he headed down the stairs.

His mother stood outside on the front path. Bulging bags of groceries leaned against her legs. Parker hefted two of them onto his hips and headed inside.

"I didn't interrupt anything important, did I?" asked his mother as she followed him to the kitchen.

"No, Mom. Just chatting to some dudes online," replied Parker.

"You weren't playing that game again, were you?"

"No, Mom." Parker hoped his ears didn't colour and give him away.

"Good. You know those blasted cards were the death of your great-great uncle."

Parker made several return trips to clear the path of bags. He left his mother unpacking the goods in the kitchen. He dreaded to think what abuse RickyBoy364 might have left in his absence from the game.

Parker walked into his bedroom. He yelped when he saw the figure sitting in his chair. A Stetson sat on his head, and blond hair curled down his back. The figure swung the chair around to face Parker. The man's piercing blue eyes fixed on Parker, his lip twitching beneath a bushy blond moustache. The man pointed an antique Colt at Parker's gut.

"Who the hell are you?" shouted Parker.

"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," replied the man. He faded and flickered as he spoke, as if Parker was watching him on an old TV set.

Parker looked over the man's shoulder. Two aces, two eights and a Queen flashed on the screen. A tirade of abuse from Rickyboy364 scrolled along the chat box beneath the cards. A dialog box asked Parker if he wanted to add the $70 to his account and leave the game, or play again.

"Oh hey, I won!" said Parker.

"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," repeated the gun man.

"What does that even mean? And who are you? What are you doing in my room? I'm calling the police," said Parker.

"You got the Dead Man's Hand, son," said the man with the Colt.

Parker reached for the phone. The man fired, flickering out of existence as the bullet slammed in Parker's gut. Parker hit the floor with a thud.

The Dead Man's Hand was the last thing he saw as his room faded to black.

* * *

This is the second of a loose trilogy based around the Dead Man's Hand, the hand of cards allegedly held by infamous gunfighter Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in the back while playing poker in a Deadwood saloon on August 2, 1876.

Part I appeared last week, here.

Photo Prompt 21

Tweet Twenty-first prompt, ready and waiting.

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The twenty-first prompt is Gondola Ride.


All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr.

Friday Flash - Dead Man's Hand I

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Edmund Rothers sat in the shadows at the back of the saloon. His eyes flicked down to his cards. A pair of aces, a pair of eights, and a queen. The Dead Man’s Hand. Edmund looked up at his opponent.

“You sure don’t say much,” said Blackjack Bud Hudson across the table.

“I apologise for my reticence, it is simply the way such games are played in the gentlemen’s clubs of London. Is conversation the accepted convention in these parts?” asked Edmund.

“I, er, what?”

“Do you desire conversation?”

“Er, I dunno...you sure talk awful fancy, English fella.”

“No, I simply speak English. There is nought fancy about it when used in the correct fashion, as an educated man is wont to do.”

“You sayin’ I’m not edumacated?”

Blackjack Bud narrowed his bloodshot eyes. He twisted his thin lips into a sneer.

“Of course not. It would be most unbecoming of me to insult my host in such a genial and hospitable place as this,” said Edmund. He gestured around the half-empty saloon. His eyes lingered on the buckshot embedded in the walls, testament to an old grudge turned violent.

“You’re usin’ big words there, English fella. I think you’re tryin’ to make me feel stupid.”

“I assure you it is not my intention. As it happens, I consider you a natural raconteur and easy wit. Come now, this talk distracts us from our game,” replied Edmund.

Blackjack Bud grunted and looked back at his cards. Edmund suspected a bad hand from the way Bud squinted and frowned at the cards.

“I think I’m gonna call you out.”

“Very well,” replied Edmund. He spread his cards on the table. Blackjack Bud’s face contorted in rage, his eyes bulging as a vein in his temple throbbed. He threw down his own cards – a pair of threes, a six, a nine and a King.

“Oh that is bad luck, Mr Hudson,” said Edmund. He reached across the table for his winnings.

“You dirty cheat.”

Edmund paused.

“What did you call me?”

“I said you’re a dirty cheat. Ain’t no way you can keep winnin’. No way at all. I’m a born gambler – why do you think they call me Blackjack Bud?”

“But Mr Hudson...this is poker.”

Blackjack Bud slammed his fist down, trapping Edmund’s hand on top of the crumpled bank notes. He leaned across the table. The stale alcohol on his breath made Edmund’s eyes water.

“Come now. I have won every hand fair and square. I am no cheat.”

Blackjack Bud’s free hand trembled beside his holster. Edmund jerked his own free hand to his shin. His hand grasped the smooth ivory handle of the knife hidden beneath his trouser leg. He unsheathed the blade and slashed across Blackjack Bud’s face in one fluid motion.

Hudson howled, yanking back his fist and pressing both hands to his cheek. Blood welled up between his fingers and dripped onto the table. A drop splashed the King of Hearts.

Edmund grabbed a fistful of money and bolted. The other patrons of the saloon watched him vault over a table and burst out of the swing doors into the street. Edmund tucked the knife into his belt as he strode down the boardwalk. He forced himself to calm down, torn between indignation over the accusation and fear of the drunken gambler with the itchy trigger finger.

“ENGLISH TRASH!”

Edmund stopped.

“Turn round, you bastard! I don’t wanna shoot a man in the back!”

He turned around. Blackjack Bud stood on the verandah of the saloon, blood dripping from his slashed cheek. Passersby dove for cover when he drew his Colt. Edmund cursed himself for not burying the knife in Blackjack Bud’s gun hand.

Silence fell, as if the whole town took the same breath of anticipation. The seconds crashed by in Edmund’s head. He noticed an alley to his left, between the saloon and the hotel. Edmund stretched his hands up in surrender, glancing between Blackjack Bud and the alley.

“Mr Hudson? Would you really shoot an unarmed –”

The crack of the pistol smashed the silence of the street. Edmund felt the impact as pain ripped into his gut. The force of the blow threw him backwards and a soundless scream tore itself from his throat. A fresh wave of pain rippled throughout his body when he hit the hard-packed earth of the street. The world turned dark.

* * *

Edmund opened his eyes. He gazed up at a purple sky shot through with streaks of gold. Sunset.

Why, only moments have passed! But why has no one come to my aid? he thought.

The sound of hooves on dry ground passed him. He wriggled up onto his elbows to see a black horse pulling a stagecoach down the street. Edmund looked around, but the town seemed deserted. He looked back at the coach, but didn’t recognise the silver crest on the door. This visitor was far too grand for a dusty hole like Blackwood.

The door swung open. A young woman poked her head out. Hair blacker than midnight tumbled around her white shoulders. Her black lips broke into a smile of grey teeth and purple gums.

“Evening, friend. You look like you could use a ride somewhere?” she asked. Her cold voice buzzed like a thousand flies around a carcass.

“Oh, indeed I could! I thought I had been shot but it appears I have had a miraculous escape,” said Edmund.

He clambered to his feet and walked to the coach. His boots made no sound on the dirt. The young woman’s face fell.

“I say, this is most decent of you. I shall be more than happy to reimburse you for your kindess,” said Edmund. He climbed into the coach. Up close, he realised that the young woman’s black eyes were filled with tiny stars.

“Sweetie, you won’t ever need to pay for anything ever again,” she said.

She closed the coach door.

* * *

This is the first of a loose trilogy based around the Dead Man's Hand, the hand of cards allegedly held by infamous gunfighter Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in the back while playing poker in a Deadwood saloon on August 2, 1876.

Also, the mysterious mademoiselle in the black coach has appeared in my work before, in Fast Away The Old Year Passes, and New Year's Dance.