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  • Writer's picturen0mad

Silver Spurs

The dust danced in tiny dervishes down Main Street, the dry baking sun blazed down, the ‘closed’ sign swung with the rotation of the fan in the small book shop’s door. Dust to dust. Ashes to Ashes. The footsteps when they came broke the silence with the jingle of silver spurs and thump of leather boots on the creaking wooden sidewalk. A wad of tobacco hit the dust creating an eruption and plume in the dry track, beaten flat by so many laden wagon wheels.

[We had 7 minutes to write something as a task in ICE - there was no time to filter, the first thing to mind had to be written.. hence this story].

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