Bravado

The sand runs down on my worn out clothes. Rugged hands, leather gloves. I stare into the horizon to face my enemy, he stares back in disdain. The town is quiet with speechless folks staring at a true horror show, the debacle of human condition, soon to be forgotten. This was not just a firefight, this was the end of an era.

Our glances met before we could withdraw the firearms and we knew, we knew it was too late. The dust would corroborate our history but not this moment, not our glory. That would be left alone for the bystanders, for all there that did not dare to take action and just stood… gazing into a scene that was over all too soon.

We fell apart, exposing our human condition as we bleed to death on the dirt, the Sun burning the skin on our bones. But midnight would come and we would rise to fight again. It was the ballad of the Western Night, it was our way to fight the good fight. And as each speckle of dust flew, so did the story. As candle-light burnt, so did our glory.
We were real characters of fiction.