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This is for the LoST semi-finals; I am facing the incredible Zatharel and you can view his blog here: story
I'd really appreciate it if you could vote in the poll (when it's posted) - a poll against Zath and for a spot in the finals means I'll need every vote I can get! You can vote on that here: poll
The crack of his fingers rang through the town:
His hat, lowered,
His bandana, raised,
His identity, hidden.
No one could beat him in a draw. No one.
The call was made,
The shots were fired,
The adversary; dead.
That was all it took; one shot through the neck.
The heart, motionless
The soul, burning
The human that once resided in that body; lost.
Ripley walked over to the corpse splayed on the gravel and spat in its direction. Kneeling down to search the body for spoils, he had a keen eye on the golden tooth besotted in the skull. Removing a penknife, he poked it into the gum line and prised the tooth out: wrapping it carefully in the blood-stained neckerchief of the former opponent.
“There’s something quite poetically beautiful about that; don’t you agree?” Ripley muttered to the corpse, “the vulgarity of blood and all it represents veneering purity and divine dispositions”. He slid his finger across the blade before placing it back in its holder.
The makeshift pouch was stashed away soon after in the pocket of his duster coat, and with that, Ripley moseyed away from the body muttering an analogy heard elsewhere “Gold is like a counselor: it can heal your broken portfolio”. If this was the case, why was this man now lying on the ground?
Dead.
Vacant.
Alone.
Ripley always felt this way after a kill. The thrill of adrenaline dissipates and morphs into a fearing of his own nature: a whirlwind of scarlet letters litter his past and torment his present. People never realised that the steely exterior housed so many demons, and that he wasn’t all he claimed to be.
Yes, he was the prestiged gunfighter.
Yes, he boasted a fast draw streak in excess of 20 kills.
Yes, he was the intimidating figure that sent people into sporadic whispers.
But he was also the pernicious human that was barren inside; and he was no he at all.
With every battle won,
v
I'd really appreciate it if you could vote in the poll (when it's posted) - a poll against Zath and for a spot in the finals means I'll need every vote I can get! You can vote on that here: poll
The Theme
Outlaw westerns focus on the black hats, the colorful villains of that era. The Dalton Brothers, Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and many others became legends in their own time. Eugene Manlove Rhodes' 1927 novel Paso por Aqui (later reprinted as Four Faces West) depicts an unusual robber hunted by the famous marshal Pat Garrett. (In fiction, this character type is known as an 'anti-hero.')
The crack of his fingers rang through the town:His hat, lowered,
His bandana, raised,
His identity, hidden.
No one could beat him in a draw. No one.
The call was made,
The shots were fired,
The adversary; dead.
That was all it took; one shot through the neck.
The heart, motionless
The soul, burning
The human that once resided in that body; lost.
Ripley walked over to the corpse splayed on the gravel and spat in its direction. Kneeling down to search the body for spoils, he had a keen eye on the golden tooth besotted in the skull. Removing a penknife, he poked it into the gum line and prised the tooth out: wrapping it carefully in the blood-stained neckerchief of the former opponent.
“There’s something quite poetically beautiful about that; don’t you agree?” Ripley muttered to the corpse, “the vulgarity of blood and all it represents veneering purity and divine dispositions”. He slid his finger across the blade before placing it back in its holder.
The makeshift pouch was stashed away soon after in the pocket of his duster coat, and with that, Ripley moseyed away from the body muttering an analogy heard elsewhere “Gold is like a counselor: it can heal your broken portfolio”. If this was the case, why was this man now lying on the ground?
Dead.
Vacant.
Alone.
Ripley always felt this way after a kill. The thrill of adrenaline dissipates and morphs into a fearing of his own nature: a whirlwind of scarlet letters litter his past and torment his present. People never realised that the steely exterior housed so many demons, and that he wasn’t all he claimed to be.
Yes, he was the prestiged gunfighter.
Yes, he boasted a fast draw streak in excess of 20 kills.
Yes, he was the intimidating figure that sent people into sporadic whispers.
But he was also the pernicious human that was barren inside; and he was no he at all.
With every battle won,
Ripley soon became undone,
To the torture of a gun.
A gun that belonged to him.
With every fight persuaded,
Ripley’s contortions faded,
His mental health unaided,
Into the shadows of the realm.
With every clash attained,
His presence became constrained,
His shirt was left blood-stained,
A blemish like his mind.
For the champion outlaw,
Had one hamartia; one fatal flaw,
He was too quick to withdraw,
From the battle of his life.
v
| Credit | Chron for his feedback/inspiration |
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if zath even enters that is