Only the Truth

It was 1:34am when Jesse reached for the light switch made faintly present by the glaring computer screen in front of me. Once flicked, the red globe bled along the walls of the room and intensified an otherwise poorly lit space. Slumped back in a desk chair, he looked around the bedroom, realising despite it had only been a week since he’d made some effort to clean it, that already it’d returned to its usual state. Bed sheets strewn about the place, clothes not only from previous outings, but ones which were decided against occupied a large portion of the bed. Books and magazines which hadn't received any love were mangled on the ground beneath another heaped mess of clothes which had fallen, and an assortment of shoes were scattered at the base of the bed, where they’d been kicked off feet in a rush to throw one’s body into slumber. Papers, notes and other useless crap found whatever space on the desk they could, until there was none, at which point they began to stack, and eventually slide off.

Story Time (work in progress)

Retribution in the Old West

For the past week, Isaac found himself battling a recurring nightmare. He envisioned a trail that appeared to be endless, and a dim light which granted but a small gap of visibility within the confined space. Each time he found himself on his horse standing before the gorge, its features remained intact, despite the dream having altered in detail each night. He recalled its rich chestnut coat livened by the sun that shone upon it, its groomed black mane and forelocks which sat on its blaze marked face, and the reigns which he held tightly before he spurred his horse into a sprint, through the valley. Over and over in the dream as he rode, Isaac looked above to the edges of the rock structures that stood on both sides, but by the sixth dream, specific aspects of the scene were blurred and unfamiliar. The laugh of Amos cut in and echoed, causing him to violently toss and turn in his bed. After his body had settled, the gorge had reached its end, and evened out onto dusty plains. Isaac emerged as he had before, aware of his surroundings and taking careful steps to where he pulled his horse to a standstill before a steep, but manageable drop. He observed on the landing below, what came to be seen as a camp, with men carrying crates from an overturned carriage, just beyond the tents. Isaac knew these men but in his dream they appeared as ordinary thieves, all until the bearded man surfaced from within one of the tents. It was Amos. Isaac already knew the flaw in his next move when he retrieved his Winchester from the holster on his back and aimed, where upon firing, he foolishly gave up his position. Amos’ instincts switched to that of a keen animal, he growled as he grabbed his revolver and held it up, directly at Isaac. By now, Amos’ form had changed as Isaac imagined him, as if like a shape-shifter, but his face and the intensity of his eyes remained.