By R. David Fulcher, Old Scratch Press Founding Member
While most authors have a preferred genre, many authors have dabbled in others. For example, while I am primarily a speculative fiction writer (horror, fantasy, and science fiction), I have also written historical fiction, drama, romance, and poetry.
However, I’ve always found one genre intimidating: Westerns.
I realize that author Louis L’Amour made a fine career out of writing Westerns, what he called “frontier stories,” but I haven’t been able to catch that particular spark. Perhaps it is simply that I’ve never invested the time to understand the difference between the gravy train or the chuck wagon, or when to precisely call in the calvary.
While I’ve enjoyed a few Western films such as Tombstone and True Grit, and appreciated the genre-blending Westerns such as Blazing Saddles, Cowboys & Aliens, and Firefly, I’d be lying if I said I were a true fan of Westerns.
Since every psychologist recommends facing your fears, I think I’ll give it a try.
So, without further ado, here is my flash fiction Western, “Down Goes the Rodeo Clown.”
Down Goes the Rodeo Clown
Roger Roy tightened his grip on the bridle. His horse, Mustang Sally, had a wild streak, and he didn’t intend to lose control while calf roping.
Suddenly the gate opened, and the crowd in the stands roared as a gate on the opposite side of the arena opened and a young black and white calf stumbled out.
Roger steered Sally towards the calf and reached for the lasso at his side to confirm it was there. Staring ahead, Roger didn’t notice that one of the loops of the lasso had caught the trigger of his six gun.
Something seemed off with the calf, too; it stumbled around like it was drunk.
Roger had a job to do, drunk calf or not, and approached the poor creature.
He tugged on the lasso to remove it, and it seemed stuck on something. Roger tugged harder the second time and felt his pistol shift and the hammer cock.
A single shot reverberated through the air: bang!
The calf awkwardly fell to the dirt with a gut-wrenching cry of anguish. A red blossom of blood stained the black and white coat.
Roger leaped off his horse to help the poor creature, only to see a pair of cowboy boots sticking out from under the coat.
He threw back the coat, only to see the body of the rodeo clown shoot right through the heart. His painted face was twisted in pain and his orange hair fluttered in the light breeze.
The crowd began to point and scream.
Roger Roy tipped his hat in their direction and said, “I guess that’s his last joke. This one was on him.”
And with a jangle of spurs Roger swung into the saddle and trotted away.
So there it is – corny, unbelievable even, but my first Western nonetheless, and you, dear reader, were there to witness it.
The moral of this story is to confront your fears, try that genre that has always scared you the most, and you might strike pay dirt.
Or as an old miner forty-niner might say, “There’s gold in them thar’ hills!”
Happy Writing!
R.David Fulcher, Founding Member of Old Scratch Press
OLD SCRATCH PRESS 