Draw
Draw.
And there I was
It was like a bad western. Or a good one. Or whatever.
I stood across from my enemy. I could feel the dirt baking beneath me in the hot sun. I could hear the breath catching in the throats of all of the spectators; all of the witnesses. I could even taste the sweat sliding itself into the creases of my lips, dry and cracked, no matter how many times I licked them out of nervousness.
But most of all I could see the guns, stuck in their holsters, waiting to be drawn. And the hips they were attached to, waiting to pivot. And me. Me, waiting to hear the numbers... The One... Two... Three...
But mostly, the Draw.
Against my better judgment, I stole a glance at my guns, just to make sure they were even there.
Which they weren't.
I guess in the heat of certain moments, a man can lose all sense he has locked in his head. More importantly, I think he can lose the sense of himself in the world around him. Like hands for instance. Somehow, I'd been clutching a guitar this entire time. So you can imagine my surprise when I went to look for my guns and I found myself facing my enemy with an acoustic guitar.
But unfortunately, my surprise lasted a second too long.
"Draw!"
In the second I looked up, three things happened.
First, like any western a single tumbleweed rolled across the hot dirt, drawing an invisible line between myself and the bullets heading in my direction. It amazed me, that tumbleweed, because for such a fraction of time, I watched as it made its way to the doorstep of the saloon where it halted its course.
Second, and stay with me because I know this will be hard to believe, everything changed. Everything. The dirt became a stage, the sun became flood lights above me, and the people in the saloon lost their boots, aprons, and bonnets. They were people below me, waiting. Waiting for music. This was a rock concert.
Third and last, I was shot. Straight through the heart. So I became swollen and bursting. It shook me awake, shook the nervousness from my mind, from my hands, and music blared from the guitar I clutched.
There was no longer an enemy in front of me. Nor would there be again.
It was like a bad western. Or a good one. Or whatever.
I stood across from my enemy. I could feel the dirt baking beneath me in the hot sun. I could hear the breath catching in the throats of all of the spectators; all of the witnesses. I could even taste the sweat sliding itself into the creases of my lips, dry and cracked, no matter how many times I licked them out of nervousness.
But most of all I could see the guns, stuck in their holsters, waiting to be drawn. And the hips they were attached to, waiting to pivot. And me. Me, waiting to hear the numbers... The One... Two... Three...
But mostly, the Draw.
Against my better judgment, I stole a glance at my guns, just to make sure they were even there.
Which they weren't.
I guess in the heat of certain moments, a man can lose all sense he has locked in his head. More importantly, I think he can lose the sense of himself in the world around him. Like hands for instance. Somehow, I'd been clutching a guitar this entire time. So you can imagine my surprise when I went to look for my guns and I found myself facing my enemy with an acoustic guitar.
But unfortunately, my surprise lasted a second too long.
"Draw!"
In the second I looked up, three things happened.
First, like any western a single tumbleweed rolled across the hot dirt, drawing an invisible line between myself and the bullets heading in my direction. It amazed me, that tumbleweed, because for such a fraction of time, I watched as it made its way to the doorstep of the saloon where it halted its course.
Second, and stay with me because I know this will be hard to believe, everything changed. Everything. The dirt became a stage, the sun became flood lights above me, and the people in the saloon lost their boots, aprons, and bonnets. They were people below me, waiting. Waiting for music. This was a rock concert.
Third and last, I was shot. Straight through the heart. So I became swollen and bursting. It shook me awake, shook the nervousness from my mind, from my hands, and music blared from the guitar I clutched.
There was no longer an enemy in front of me. Nor would there be again.