This is the beginning, that I have so far, of my novel 'The Daisy'.
Read, love it, review it, hate it, tear it apart. I don't care. I need comments.
----
[ Dreary ]
I.
The cruel reality had caused the gunslinger to dim; the daisy shone.
The cloven hillside had arched deeply, running itself into a hardpan and through the thick horizon. Cacti dotted the desert like blooming flowers and the sky was cloudless; the sun nothing more than a halo of heat. Thin waves of heat danced in the dry air, blurring the gunslinger’s vision in the distance.
The desert stretched on, the few lifeless tumbleweeds rolled past, scratching at the parched ground and bouncing with the dry heat. The sound of cracking was even heard among the dry wind, it seemed to sing a song, almost begging for water.
Yet the hope hadn’t run dry from the gunslinger’s mind, even if the sanity had. The images that danced with the sizzling waves was a fountain in this insane wasteland of nothingness.
It could have been days, weeks or months since he had seen civilization. A friend from the past had been known to say that time was funny in some places, yet it had taken more of a toll on his mind than his body. It only felt like days, to his body, since he had gotten a drink of water, yet to his mind, it seemed like ages.
A dry caw could be heard in the distance and the flapping of wings. The hot wind rattled at the broken pieces of wood that lay in a near by deserted farm field. The place was like a barren wasteland, even the barbed wire had lost its color, and even shape. It could have been melting in the heat, yet the gunslinger didn’t pay it much mind.
He contemplated whether to head into the barn to cool down or to attempt the few miles that laid ahead of him. Despite the heat, even a dead horse could have probably told him not to enter the barn. The ominous feeling that loomed over it and the odd sounds coming from it, which didn’t sound like vultures, had an oddly drugging affect on him.
It captivated him for a few moments time, yet he soon snapped into reality. He wasn’t one to dwell on things, he’d be sure to ride out here if civilization was up ahead. He’d heard from May’s teachings that if the human mind wanted to make you see a person, it’d make you see it.
He started off down the cloven hillside, with short, jittery movements. The loose holding on the ground, along with his lack of physical ability, made it hard to stay upright at this moment. The dust and rock slid down, crumbling beneath his boots and he slid onto the hardpan, looking out to his destination.
His fingers ached and his hips felt bruised, suddenly the guns on his hips didn’t seem as pleasant as they had been when first given to them. They seemed to be filled with doubts, layered and caked with doubts, and maybe even guilt. They felt heavy and dark to the touch, as if they were mocking him.
A heavy pounding throbbed at the back of his skull, making his ears pulse and have an odd ring within them, along with an aching twist. The arches of his feet ached and sharp pains shot through them as he began to walk.
His careful steps, which had created small prints within the blown away topsoil upon the hard, broken ground, were soon forgotten by the desert as the topsoil spun away.
The shapes ahead had began to form into solids and stop moving for a time as he grew near to the source of civilization. It swayed from time to time, yet lack of water and vitamins had told him that he was the one swaying. His boots were dry, not oiled like they had been when he first started this journey, they looked just like the hardpan: cracked, old, dry and tired.
The desert wheezed from time to time; a cresting hill slopping up then suddenly cropping down held strong against the wind, causing the topsoil to break against it, flying everywhere. The dirt found its way into his boots and hair, making his thick black hair seem thicker than it already was, more blocky and cut awkwardly.
Life blossomed from the heat rays, the broken ground oddly changing from a cracked ground to a bumpy, dusty road. He hadn’t seen a road in ages, he had forgotten what one looked like. He wasn’t sure if it even was a road, yet its vertical pattern heading one way from where he was gave him a new hope that he had recognized one.
Wheels turned in the distance and a groan could be heard from the wheezing hardpan. Dust licked at his trench coat, bleaching the leather and soon finding its way to his mouth, which awkwardly made a home on the bottom of his tongue. It caused him to lick his lips, cough and spit awkwardly, making him look like a mad man.
The taste of it was even tempting. It didn’t taste like dust, or even that annoying concrete that he had grinned up for years of his life, it tasted better than the dead grass within the hardpan as well. The yellow-green shrubs also fled from his view, the plants were a foreboding character of the desert; representing death and the odd rebirth that came with it.
Oil and gas licked at the air and settled in his nostrils, causing a shiver of anticipation to run through his spine, his bones popping audibly.
The kerosene lamps flickered within the wind, the flame dipping into the gusts every so often and many going out. Windows and doors rattled, near by a broken shutter slammed back and forth, slowing every so often.
His body couldn’t decide what it wanted first: water or sleep. The lack of both had interfered with his logic, and he had soon began to doubt if this was even a town. Civilization upon the streets wasn’t visible, and the lines of light bleeding from the sun cast waves of shadows into the cracks of the alley ways.
The near by sign swayed in the wind, and his gaze flickered to it. The ink had worn into the wood, and both had been half heartedly washed away by the wind.
Bat wing doors marked the entrance of the near by honky-tonk. He assumed the sign of ‘Pearl’s’ was their cheap and sad attempt of advertisement.
The shaved down wood, which had splinters and chips every so often, held a design that may have been common to townspeople, yet, was odd to him. It felt odd to the touch, as he pushed open the right door, with one hand, and lazily looked up at the dim lighted room.
The bottom floor of the honky-tonk was a supposed rectangle, with the height of the sides stretching to the opposite side of the room. A carved in rectangular shaped bar also lay on the other side of the room, and to the right of that, a badly constructed piano.
Stair cases, made of cheap wood, extended from either side of the far corners, leading up to the second story. Round tables, filled with poker chips and stale beer, dotted the wooden floor and the piano struck sour notes, to fit the mood.
The gas lamps, which were held by a cheap chandelier, colored with brown, fake gold, and green colors, flickered every so often and continued to try and shine through the dirty glass.
The air was smoky, wafts of cigarette ash and clouds either drifted through the small cracks in the ceiling, or settled in the thick air. There was the every so often clang of glass with the constant gossip, that hadn’t settled, and probably never would.
The gunslinger weaved his way through the crowd of whores, attention whores and gamblers, to the bar, where he rested his hands on the dirtied porcelain. The wood underneath it had began to chip and the wood beneath his feet cracked and rocked with each movement.
“Water.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“What doesn’t.”
The bartender eyed him for a few moments, hesitating and looking him over. With a roll of her eye and a quick movement of the wrist, the towel that was once in her hand, was resting on her shoulder and a glass of water was set before him.
He reached in his pocket, trying to ignore the dirt and grains of sand that nipped at his hands and placed a chip of some oddly shaped metal on the bar. After going through the routine of ‘is it real’, she placed the coin away and walked off, resuming with her earlier mood.
His lack of water had gone to the point of: over drinking would cause the body to react oddly and the ill feeling of gluttony would form within his stomach. He sputtered and wheezed, the cold feeling against his dry throat odd to his mind. Water droplets went onto the bar and the back of his hand.
His stomach suddenly roped into knots. He grimaced, finally showing an ounce of emotion in the past days, months or maybe even years. He placed the unfinished water on the bar and eyed one of the green doors above the first floor.
He gestured and snapped his fingers. “Miss,” she turned around sharply, which made him turn sharply. The sudden change of velocity had caused his stomach to flop. Bile rose in his throat and he took another swig of the water. “How much for a room?”
She glanced up at the rooms. “Not much, your coin covered more than the water. One night at the most.”
“Right…”
The sick feeling had soon passed within his stomach, the roping and settled and the bile had eased. The feeling of satisfaction was like a drug, making his movements slower and more clumsy, within his new state of mind and his eyes dropped.
Head down, hat over eyes, he slowly walked up the staircase, one hand on the rail. He swayed every so often and came upon the green door.
In the morning, he would not remember falling asleep on the floor.
