Dusty Western Track by Dave Rigby
A man wearing a hat is up ahead, holsters strapped to left and right thigh, each holding a six-shooter. He’s running. The first thing that strikes you is the horse. There isn’t one. Why is the man running? The second thing that strikes you is the feeling you’re in danger. You look down at dust-covered boots. They feel solid and comfortable. But they’re not your boots. The trousers are worn and frayed at the ends. They’re not yours either. But the nightshirt tucked into the trousers is yours. Your head is throbbing. Reaching up you touch a bandage. When you examine your fingers, there are smears of blood. You’ve no memory of the clothes, the head wound, or how you got here. The man is still running, getting further and further away. A sudden squall blows dust in your face, your eyes water, you spit and spit, breathing is difficult. By the time you’re finally able to open your eyes, the man has disappeared. You keep walking hoping to clear your mind, hoping for some cl...