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11:59 AM
The Gunslinger already knows how it's going to turn out. Everybody does, maybe even the kid who just swaggered in, shine still on the Colt hanging from his hip.
He finishes his drink as the kid stirs up a ruckus, speaking too loud in a kind of accent where the drawl comes out of the wrong side of his mouth. The kid's from a farm, but not here. Far from home, wearing his Sunday best, even if the shirt's threadbare.
Seeking his fortune—that was the way it was for most of them. Every now and again there'd be something different: maybe a relative looking for revenge, or a common thug who didn't know what he was dealing with. Occasionally, it was an ex-army type who'd lived through hell in some godforsaken desert and had never quite managed to come all the way back.
But they’re usually just like this one. The kid’s braggadocio isn't getting any takers, so he finally works up the nerve to announce his intentions. He's here for the Gunslinger. He's heard he's in town.
The Gunslinger feels all eyes turn to him, and the kid may be dumb, but he's not blind. The kid's about to start more trouble, find the excuse he needs to make the challenge.
"Noon," the Gunslinger says, his voice cutting through the noise of the saloon. "Outside."
The kid jaws some more and heads out. The Gunslinger signals for one last whiskey.
Everyone knows how this is going to turn out. So the Gunslinger tries to convince himself that this time it'll be different.
He would have skipped the drink when he was younger. But age had already done more than the whiskey ever had. These days, it just soothed the shakes a little. And maybe the kid was a good shot. He didn't seem too different than the Gunslinger had been, once. Lord knows it wasn't as if shooting a gun needed a man to be bright.
When the Gunslinger had started, he shot straight. That's how he had been taught, to aim for the heart, the thrill of danger pounding in his chest each and every time. After a while, he started shaking things up, shooting the gun out of their hand, one time knocking the hat off a man without touching a hair on his head. He’d put on a show, find some fun in it. That was when he made the name for himself, which long ago supplanted any real one.
And then, they kept coming. He lost count of how many men he laid low over the years. He rarely feels the danger any more. He doesn't find any joy in the work.
He’d started shooting straight again, in the hopes that when word got around, they'd stop coming. It hadn't worked. If anything, it had only gotten worse.
One day, the Gunslinger figures, he'll just be a hair too slow and that will be the end of it. Someone else will take his place. Or maybe the world will just move on without him. The frontier he’d known as a kid is already disappearing. The West is old, too, and eventually the railroad bullets that tear through scrubland and mountain and prairie will hit something invisible but vital and that will be the end.
But for now, the Gunslinger knows how it's going to turn out. He finishes the whiskey. Tomorrow they’ll ask him to leave town. This is the third one this week.
He’s just so tired, somewhere deep in his bones, where the feelings have dulled into an ache that not even the liquor can hide. He wonders what it feels like to be dead. Would that’d be so different after all?
The kid is waiting outside when the Gunslinger walks out. He hasn't run away—they rarely do. Instead, he's quiet now. The swagger’s gone or buried. He's more ready than the Gunslinger had first thought.
They don't exchange words as they face down one another. It's not necessary any more.
Everything in town comes to a stop, faces peeking out of buildings, behind stagecoaches. The only sound is the wind.
The kid makes his move. It's obvious that he's a moment too rushed, too clumsy.
The Gunslinger watches, unmoving.
The kid fires, but in his panic the shots go wild, kicking up the dirt at the Gunslinger’s feet. The hammer clicks again and again, and then the kid is fumbling, trying to reload.
The Gunslinger draws.
He shoots straight.
He finishes his drink as the kid stirs up a ruckus, speaking too loud in a kind of accent where the drawl comes out of the wrong side of his mouth. The kid's from a farm, but not here. Far from home, wearing his Sunday best, even if the shirt's threadbare.
Seeking his fortune—that was the way it was for most of them. Every now and again there'd be something different: maybe a relative looking for revenge, or a common thug who didn't know what he was dealing with. Occasionally, it was an ex-army type who'd lived through hell in some godforsaken desert and had never quite managed to come all the way back.
But they’re usually just like this one. The kid’s braggadocio isn't getting any takers, so he finally works up the nerve to announce his intentions. He's here for the Gunslinger. He's heard he's in town.
The Gunslinger feels all eyes turn to him, and the kid may be dumb, but he's not blind. The kid's about to start more trouble, find the excuse he needs to make the challenge.
"Noon," the Gunslinger says, his voice cutting through the noise of the saloon. "Outside."
The kid jaws some more and heads out. The Gunslinger signals for one last whiskey.
Everyone knows how this is going to turn out. So the Gunslinger tries to convince himself that this time it'll be different.
He would have skipped the drink when he was younger. But age had already done more than the whiskey ever had. These days, it just soothed the shakes a little. And maybe the kid was a good shot. He didn't seem too different than the Gunslinger had been, once. Lord knows it wasn't as if shooting a gun needed a man to be bright.
When the Gunslinger had started, he shot straight. That's how he had been taught, to aim for the heart, the thrill of danger pounding in his chest each and every time. After a while, he started shaking things up, shooting the gun out of their hand, one time knocking the hat off a man without touching a hair on his head. He’d put on a show, find some fun in it. That was when he made the name for himself, which long ago supplanted any real one.
And then, they kept coming. He lost count of how many men he laid low over the years. He rarely feels the danger any more. He doesn't find any joy in the work.
He’d started shooting straight again, in the hopes that when word got around, they'd stop coming. It hadn't worked. If anything, it had only gotten worse.
One day, the Gunslinger figures, he'll just be a hair too slow and that will be the end of it. Someone else will take his place. Or maybe the world will just move on without him. The frontier he’d known as a kid is already disappearing. The West is old, too, and eventually the railroad bullets that tear through scrubland and mountain and prairie will hit something invisible but vital and that will be the end.
But for now, the Gunslinger knows how it's going to turn out. He finishes the whiskey. Tomorrow they’ll ask him to leave town. This is the third one this week.
He’s just so tired, somewhere deep in his bones, where the feelings have dulled into an ache that not even the liquor can hide. He wonders what it feels like to be dead. Would that’d be so different after all?
The kid is waiting outside when the Gunslinger walks out. He hasn't run away—they rarely do. Instead, he's quiet now. The swagger’s gone or buried. He's more ready than the Gunslinger had first thought.
They don't exchange words as they face down one another. It's not necessary any more.
Everything in town comes to a stop, faces peeking out of buildings, behind stagecoaches. The only sound is the wind.
The kid makes his move. It's obvious that he's a moment too rushed, too clumsy.
The Gunslinger watches, unmoving.
The kid fires, but in his panic the shots go wild, kicking up the dirt at the Gunslinger’s feet. The hammer clicks again and again, and then the kid is fumbling, trying to reload.
The Gunslinger draws.
He shoots straight.
I'll come back to this sometime later, but here are some preliminary thoughts:
-Good prose, for the most part. Some odd vocabulary decisions ("braggadocio" strikes me as particularly egregious)
-Story itself is about futility and fatalism to an extent, but it itself feels like a retread of every western ever made, and I don't think it brings anything particularly new or interesting to the genre.
-Not really enough going on for the Gunslinger or the kid to get much pathos of the situation. Or rather, the Gunslinger's drama is an informed trait as a result of this being a mini-fiction.
-Pretty good, will probably make finals. This is a story I would call a chaff separator, the benchmark to meet or overcome in terms of craftmanship to be considered a good entry.
-Good prose, for the most part. Some odd vocabulary decisions ("braggadocio" strikes me as particularly egregious)
-Story itself is about futility and fatalism to an extent, but it itself feels like a retread of every western ever made, and I don't think it brings anything particularly new or interesting to the genre.
-Not really enough going on for the Gunslinger or the kid to get much pathos of the situation. Or rather, the Gunslinger's drama is an informed trait as a result of this being a mini-fiction.
-Pretty good, will probably make finals. This is a story I would call a chaff separator, the benchmark to meet or overcome in terms of craftmanship to be considered a good entry.
Hmmm… It could probably be a short version of a spaghetti western such as Once Upon the Time in the West. It has a nice feel to it, and captures well the atmosphere surrounding these movies, itself derived from a (mostly fantasised?) historic reality.
The plot is fairly straightforward though, and while the stakes are high, the end is predictable from the start. It's like the whole scene is a mere pretext to that stream of consciousness.
I mean, competent prose, interesting psychological portrait, but there’s nothing grasping or unexpected that I can take away.
The plot is fairly straightforward though, and while the stakes are high, the end is predictable from the start. It's like the whole scene is a mere pretext to that stream of consciousness.
I mean, competent prose, interesting psychological portrait, but there’s nothing grasping or unexpected that I can take away.
Really enjoyed this one.
It manages to be a complete story even with the limited word count, and still resolves itself resoundingly without leaving a noticeable section of weakness throughout the plot. It's probably more strong as a short story than if the author had to stretch it out.
The concept is well-executed, even if it is a bit generic, but the strong writing puts that thought well back out of the way.
Definitely going to make the finals.
It manages to be a complete story even with the limited word count, and still resolves itself resoundingly without leaving a noticeable section of weakness throughout the plot. It's probably more strong as a short story than if the author had to stretch it out.
The concept is well-executed, even if it is a bit generic, but the strong writing puts that thought well back out of the way.
Definitely going to make the finals.
These characters feel entirely too caricatured to me. They don't even have names! I'd like a few details; what makes them unique? What does the Gunslinger do to make money? What's 'the kid' wearing? What's the weather like? Or maybe I'd be alright with such stock tropes and characters if they were twisted or suborned somehow. But as-is, without something fresh, the whole thing just ends up feeling kinda bland, and it's really hard to care about.
Maybe that's asking too much here, given the contest limitations. I dunno. The prose is fairly clean, if a bit dense at times, and there is an entire story told here without some inane twist at the end, and I do appreciate all of that. I'd just like a bit more zest and zip, I think.
Maybe that's asking too much here, given the contest limitations. I dunno. The prose is fairly clean, if a bit dense at times, and there is an entire story told here without some inane twist at the end, and I do appreciate all of that. I'd just like a bit more zest and zip, I think.
I'd just be retreading what others have said, so there isn't much left for me to say. Good writing, somewhat tired concept. I was half-expecting you to subvert the trope and have him just stand there and let his tired, aching legacy die with him. They'd all searched for glory in the gunslinger, what better way to die than to deny it in his last breath?
There's a lot of ways to read into this deeper. It's got the Keanu face of blankness that let's the audiance place their own self/values on the protagonist. Is he weary of the world and wanting to die? Or is he tired of killing kids? Does he want to be left alone, or is he waiting for a foe worthy to defeat him?
The problem though, is the same with all Keanu movies. They mostly go nowhere and do nothing. This is a very, very cliche setting and sequence. By leaving it mostly a blank space for us to imprint on, the story itself does nothing to add to the expected.
Summary: Competent prose, but forgettable story.
The problem though, is the same with all Keanu movies. They mostly go nowhere and do nothing. This is a very, very cliche setting and sequence. By leaving it mostly a blank space for us to imprint on, the story itself does nothing to add to the expected.
Summary: Competent prose, but forgettable story.
The West is old, too, and eventually the railroad bullets that tear through scrubland and mountain and prairie will hit something invisible but vital and that will be the end.
I just want to call this out as the best line in a strong piece — the best sentence I've read this round (though some of the lines from Epithalamia are hot on its heels).
This swings for the fences on theme, and I think the people complaining about the relative blank-label nature of the character work aren't appreciating the duality here in quite the same way I am. The Gunslinger is trapped in the small by the young bucks that keep trying to challenge him, but trapped in the large the same way the land is. If he stops shooting back he loses something invisible yet vital. This does some impressive character work through metaphor.
Going to be among my top tier.
Very similar in style to "Sixty Seconds to the End," in that both stories are basically just the protagonist telling us how things got to the point they're at, right now. This story, at least, has a few one-line paragraphs at the end that convey some action. A climax, though a short one.
The prose here is fine, but there's not much ambition. This is a story about a gunslinger who kills a lot of people. That's it. Even the ending is exactly that – the gunslinger adds another notch to his belt. The gunslinger feels kind of sad about the whole thing. The end.
When I have to judge stories that are all well written, I look for things like originality of idea, scope of ambition, vividness, etc. That's what this story is going to be competing on.
The prose here is fine, but there's not much ambition. This is a story about a gunslinger who kills a lot of people. That's it. Even the ending is exactly that – the gunslinger adds another notch to his belt. The gunslinger feels kind of sad about the whole thing. The end.
When I have to judge stories that are all well written, I look for things like originality of idea, scope of ambition, vividness, etc. That's what this story is going to be competing on.
I actually really enjoyed this one. You can really tell the Gunslinger's getting really tired of this life, and while his opponent is a loudmouth, you do feel bad for him because he's just a dumb kid. This really is a character piece, and it's most effective by focusing on the characters instead of a fanciful situation.
A morose examination on the nature of the West.
A morose examination on the nature of the West.
Let's go with echoing >>Xepher here, as most of what I'd say have been better said by someone else already and he matches my feelings here pretty well.