As he drifts into town, a gust of wind pushes dust and tumbleweed on either side, trying to bully this Stranger with few possessions: his noble steed, the clothes on his back, a bullet belt and two trusty holstered revolvers. He doesn’t bully easily. The fallen outlaws who lay in his wake would attest to that, were they not cold, dead and decaying in their makeshift shallow graves. In the near distance he hears that unmistakable sound. Upon his steed, he retrieves a pistol from his side and rides toward what could be the bloodiest shootout this side of Texas.
She’s gone now, not much I can do about it except sulk. And eat. Not like I’ve anyone to look handsome for, the only woman who ever truly mattered left me. Now I’ll eat to my heart’s content, get me through the nights.
No, she wouldn’t approve if she saw me.
“You’ll make yourself sick!”
“Keep that up, you won’t fit into your favorite jeans anymore!”
“No sane person eats that much ice cream in one night!”
Ice cream isn’t only for depressed teenage girls dumped by their transient boyfriends, or neglected wives whose marriages are headed for irreconcilable differences.
I’ve always been able to see them. The Shadow People, I mean. Even when I was a little younger around age five, they would visit me sometimes. But I always see them around town, especially in the countryside. Mommy and Daddy don’t believe me because they never see them. The Shadow People fade away whenever grownups are around. It’s almost like they’re scared of grownups or something. I think it’s because grown folks aren’t believers. The Shadow People don’t want to be around those who don’t acknowledge them. Wouldn’t you want credit for the good things you do for others?