au challenge entry - tumbleweed
title: tumbleweed
author: MaryBWolf
theme: wild west
rating: PG-13/T
summary: a gunshot is a funny thing. it means different things to different people. it's an end. but it's also a beginning.
a gunshot is a funny thing, he thinks. it's essentially just a loud noise, let off when the gunpowder ignites and the bullet leaves the barrel, but really it means so much more. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
--
their first beginning is when he wanders into town, delirious from lack of water, beaten bloody by the bandits and vagabonds out there roaming the sands who weren't merciful enough to just put a bullet to him, and she was the unfortunately fortunate soul sent out by her brothel to fetch a bucket of water for that day's cook when he collapsed at the well.
(sometimes he wonders if he would have fallen in love with her at all if she hadn't been the one there, if he'd been rescued or nursed back to wellness by anyone else. the thought doesn't sit well.)
when he wakes up in a whorehouse, he's somewhat mortified. he likes to pretend he's a moral man, but really he's just the same as everyone else. he has a price. he has a breaking point. his turns out to be an exotically colored woman with a cup of water and a bowl of broth and ointment.
(he isn't sure he likes this, but he's broken, so why should it matter? she doesn't put him back together but her broken edges fit his well enough.)
he marries her three weeks later, a dusty ceremony in a dusty room to a woman considered by the world to be used up trash. he isn't sure he wants to settle in this place. he isn't sure he wants to settle anywhere. he's been tumbleweed for so long now.
(tumbleweed is at the mercy of the wind. this is how he likes his life. it comforts him, somehow, to know that his life isn't really in his own hands as he's blown from place to place.)
it's their first big fight. she's lived her entire life in this shantytown, hastily erected when miners thought there was gold. he's a wanderer, loyal only to his pistols and the open road before him. except now he has her to think about. her wants, her needs, her comforts. he puts her before him because he loves her.
(he hates that he has to stay in one place. tumbleweed has no roots. sometimes, he even hates that he loves her, hates that he married her. tumbleweed has no partner.)
he does make sure she gives up her bed in the brothel, however. she works there still, cleaning for the girls, tending their hurts, punching out the men who think they can hurt the girls. for being so petite a woman, she certainly knows how to hit. when he hands her one of his guns to teach her how to shoot, she picks it up quick as a whip.
(his wife is a woman given to violence. if she wasn't so quick to defend her home and insist that they stay, he'd take the notion her nature was fire. he knows better, though. she's earth.)
this becomes their end. his tumbleweed existence has garnered him a reputation, one that isn't altogether pleasant. with no steady work, he took odd jobs to survive. often he was a marksman. now he's a marked man. but the one who is after him comes across him with his wife.
(she struggles and is struck across the head. she lays bleeding in the middle of the road. he attacks. he is shot and dragged across the back of a horse and carried off.)
--
a gunshot is a funny thing, she thinks. it's a horror hidden in a single-note song, and it stops the heart, but really it means so much more. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
--
their second beginning is when she kicks in the door of the establishment they've hidden him in. she's spent seven years searching for him and if they think one little locked door is going to keep her away from him, then they've got another thing coming. the four heavily armed men behind the one little locked door seem to think the same thing.
(but she's had seven years to perfect her aim, seven years of tumbleweed existence. there's one bullet in her gun with each man's name on it. none of them fail her.)
she walks calmly across the bloody floor and into the back of the saloon. a smirking man greets her at the door to the closet he's strung up in. she shoots him square between the eyes and he doesn't lift a finger to stop her. this unsettles her. but she's come for her man and nothing will stop her.
(inside the closet is the husk of a man she once knew. his condition is worse than when she'd first met him, but she has cooler water and better broth and stronger ointment. she can fix him again.)
they have to stay in that saloon in an empty ghost town, because the man who took him wanted him to suffer for every day he went without his father. seven years is a long time. he will have scars all over his entire body for the rest of his life. but she doesn't care about the marks.
(she cares about having him at all. he's broken in new ways, but so is she. the only question that lingers in her mind is if their broken edges will still fit.)
when he's well enough to travel again, they pick up where tumbleweed left off and wander. it's become her second nature now. she hates it. she misses her shantytown, her whorehouse friends. but she's a wife and she's not the best one by traditonal standards, but she's a damn good one by his and she lives the life he wants because she loves him.
(there're only a handful of things she's ever been good at. she never imagined being a wife would be one of them. who would ever want to marry a prostitute?)
her question is answered as they wander together. not only do their broken edges still fit, but they fit better, because now she understands him. the lack of roots. the need to hide everything about oneself. fighting to defend. struggling to survive. she loves him more than ever.
(she's loved him since he tripped over his own feet and landed in the dirt that soaked up his blood like a greedy mouth. she can't help it and she doesn't want to.)
she doesn't give him his gun back. it's been in her hand as her constant companion for years, been slicked with her blood as often as it's been slicked with men's blood, and it's part of her now. when she fired, she could remember the way he'd looked at her and how it felt to be wrapped in his arms at night. it's been her memory of him.
(she flicks his hat and she flicks his nose and she tells him she loves him and to get his own gun and they make love until the sun rises and they have to continue on their way.)
it's only a matter of time before they find their way back to her shantytown and old whorehouse. the women welcome them with open arms and when he asks her if she wants to stay, she considers it for a moment before she sees the look in his eye. he's always been tumbleweed and she's been uprooted. there's no place for roots in them anymore.
(so she takes his hand and she pats her gun, straightens her hat and his and the tumbleweeds have partners now. the sound of a gunshot as a fight breaks out behind them marks their passage out of town.)
--
a gunshot is a funny thing, they know. it's a loud noise, and it's a song. it's horrifying and lovely. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
also at my journal.
author: MaryBWolf
theme: wild west
rating: PG-13/T
summary: a gunshot is a funny thing. it means different things to different people. it's an end. but it's also a beginning.
a gunshot is a funny thing, he thinks. it's essentially just a loud noise, let off when the gunpowder ignites and the bullet leaves the barrel, but really it means so much more. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
--
their first beginning is when he wanders into town, delirious from lack of water, beaten bloody by the bandits and vagabonds out there roaming the sands who weren't merciful enough to just put a bullet to him, and she was the unfortunately fortunate soul sent out by her brothel to fetch a bucket of water for that day's cook when he collapsed at the well.
(sometimes he wonders if he would have fallen in love with her at all if she hadn't been the one there, if he'd been rescued or nursed back to wellness by anyone else. the thought doesn't sit well.)
when he wakes up in a whorehouse, he's somewhat mortified. he likes to pretend he's a moral man, but really he's just the same as everyone else. he has a price. he has a breaking point. his turns out to be an exotically colored woman with a cup of water and a bowl of broth and ointment.
(he isn't sure he likes this, but he's broken, so why should it matter? she doesn't put him back together but her broken edges fit his well enough.)
he marries her three weeks later, a dusty ceremony in a dusty room to a woman considered by the world to be used up trash. he isn't sure he wants to settle in this place. he isn't sure he wants to settle anywhere. he's been tumbleweed for so long now.
(tumbleweed is at the mercy of the wind. this is how he likes his life. it comforts him, somehow, to know that his life isn't really in his own hands as he's blown from place to place.)
it's their first big fight. she's lived her entire life in this shantytown, hastily erected when miners thought there was gold. he's a wanderer, loyal only to his pistols and the open road before him. except now he has her to think about. her wants, her needs, her comforts. he puts her before him because he loves her.
(he hates that he has to stay in one place. tumbleweed has no roots. sometimes, he even hates that he loves her, hates that he married her. tumbleweed has no partner.)
he does make sure she gives up her bed in the brothel, however. she works there still, cleaning for the girls, tending their hurts, punching out the men who think they can hurt the girls. for being so petite a woman, she certainly knows how to hit. when he hands her one of his guns to teach her how to shoot, she picks it up quick as a whip.
(his wife is a woman given to violence. if she wasn't so quick to defend her home and insist that they stay, he'd take the notion her nature was fire. he knows better, though. she's earth.)
this becomes their end. his tumbleweed existence has garnered him a reputation, one that isn't altogether pleasant. with no steady work, he took odd jobs to survive. often he was a marksman. now he's a marked man. but the one who is after him comes across him with his wife.
(she struggles and is struck across the head. she lays bleeding in the middle of the road. he attacks. he is shot and dragged across the back of a horse and carried off.)
--
a gunshot is a funny thing, she thinks. it's a horror hidden in a single-note song, and it stops the heart, but really it means so much more. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
--
their second beginning is when she kicks in the door of the establishment they've hidden him in. she's spent seven years searching for him and if they think one little locked door is going to keep her away from him, then they've got another thing coming. the four heavily armed men behind the one little locked door seem to think the same thing.
(but she's had seven years to perfect her aim, seven years of tumbleweed existence. there's one bullet in her gun with each man's name on it. none of them fail her.)
she walks calmly across the bloody floor and into the back of the saloon. a smirking man greets her at the door to the closet he's strung up in. she shoots him square between the eyes and he doesn't lift a finger to stop her. this unsettles her. but she's come for her man and nothing will stop her.
(inside the closet is the husk of a man she once knew. his condition is worse than when she'd first met him, but she has cooler water and better broth and stronger ointment. she can fix him again.)
they have to stay in that saloon in an empty ghost town, because the man who took him wanted him to suffer for every day he went without his father. seven years is a long time. he will have scars all over his entire body for the rest of his life. but she doesn't care about the marks.
(she cares about having him at all. he's broken in new ways, but so is she. the only question that lingers in her mind is if their broken edges will still fit.)
when he's well enough to travel again, they pick up where tumbleweed left off and wander. it's become her second nature now. she hates it. she misses her shantytown, her whorehouse friends. but she's a wife and she's not the best one by traditonal standards, but she's a damn good one by his and she lives the life he wants because she loves him.
(there're only a handful of things she's ever been good at. she never imagined being a wife would be one of them. who would ever want to marry a prostitute?)
her question is answered as they wander together. not only do their broken edges still fit, but they fit better, because now she understands him. the lack of roots. the need to hide everything about oneself. fighting to defend. struggling to survive. she loves him more than ever.
(she's loved him since he tripped over his own feet and landed in the dirt that soaked up his blood like a greedy mouth. she can't help it and she doesn't want to.)
she doesn't give him his gun back. it's been in her hand as her constant companion for years, been slicked with her blood as often as it's been slicked with men's blood, and it's part of her now. when she fired, she could remember the way he'd looked at her and how it felt to be wrapped in his arms at night. it's been her memory of him.
(she flicks his hat and she flicks his nose and she tells him she loves him and to get his own gun and they make love until the sun rises and they have to continue on their way.)
it's only a matter of time before they find their way back to her shantytown and old whorehouse. the women welcome them with open arms and when he asks her if she wants to stay, she considers it for a moment before she sees the look in his eye. he's always been tumbleweed and she's been uprooted. there's no place for roots in them anymore.
(so she takes his hand and she pats her gun, straightens her hat and his and the tumbleweeds have partners now. the sound of a gunshot as a fight breaks out behind them marks their passage out of town.)
--
a gunshot is a funny thing, they know. it's a loud noise, and it's a song. it's horrifying and lovely. it's the end of something.
but, more important, it's the beginning of something.
also at my journal.