By Eleutherophobia

It had to have been the middle of summer – that romantic time that sends breeze through everything - when only the sun setting and rising matters. No responsibility in sight.

He, the hero, had on a cowboy hat, red with white stitching, ropelike along the brim. It covered a thickish crop of brown hair combed neatly backward. A grin full of holes kept presenting itself as he chewed loudly on a bubblegum brick. Tuck under a red vest with a sheriff’s badge, he wore a blue t-shirt with a cartoon cowboy – it hung loosely around his arms, and draped over denim shorts. A ruddy, scabbed-over scrape painted one knee, tears shed and forgotten days ago. In his hand he clenched a toy six-shooter, aimed unwavering at the dastardly villain imagined just ahead.

She, the damsel, was a redheaded sprite whose wrists were tied to a playground swing with loose red yarn. She smiled at the boy, black spots peppering the display, arguably moments from being exploded by stacked up sticks of dynamite. Her mother’s good lipstick painted the smile in a cranberry red, the rest of her face dotted with ruddy freckles. Thrown over a plain greenish tee and blue jeans was the white gown she had worn to her oldest older sister’s wedding; mud had begun to creep up its frilly bottom.

They were just as in love as all kids happened to be while they were still kids. “Jack, help me!” she yelped, and he pulled the revolver on her dastardly captor, filling him up with emptiness.


Created: Mar 27, 2010


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