Young Writers Society

---------Rated Pg-13 for language and a boner---------

Dip,

I

Edward Grinshaw was the sheriff of Merrington County. He was an assertive and confident man. He considered himself damn well near the best sheriff in all of the Green West counties. His shot was better than okay, and though he was forty-five, he was still the fastest draw of any of these salt-licking deputees, by far. He also had an acutely keen ear for gunshots, so when one went off a quarter mile from his office, he was on his horse and riding before the echo ceased its reverberation.

There was only one road in Merrington, and it was called Westminster Alley. Along Westminster, there were various housing complexes, bars, barbers, grocers, stables, and a few government buildings. The road wound in an upward spiral from the docks at the sea below, up to the top of Merrington, where the Sheriff’s office was. Sheriff Grinshaw rode recklessly through the street, barreling down the slope to where he heard the gunshot.

II

The cloaked man heard Grinshaw coming as soon as he led his horse from its stable. Cunning he may have been, but restrained he was not. By the time the Sheriff had rode the ten minutes through town and was in front of The Ocean Maid’s Fury Saloon, all that was left was a trail of dust out of town, a blood soaked horse, and a body with no head.

Where the head should have been, there was only a pulsing gob of vibrant, singed flesh.

Pinks, browns, and reds clouded Grinshaw’s eyes, and he stumbled backwards at the sight of the ugly mess. The sheriff threw up his breakfast of eggs and bacon and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket. After coughing and spitting for a few minutes more, he took the blanket from the red horses back and opened it up with one swift flick. The blanket settled calmly over the corpse, but a section in the middle remained in the air.

“Well god damn! This sonnuva bitch’s got himself a hard on!”

Grinshaw thought this was damn funny, so he chortled contently to himself before rolling the body over and tucking in the loose ends of the blanket.

III

They walked in silence for two hours before the man finally spoke to Phillip. As they walked, his cloak trailed behind him for five feet, and slithered after like liquid midnight. The cloak was alive, sentient in its own right. Entombed in it were souls, “ Souls of the retched! ” he would later boast. Each collected soul took its place as a star in the infinite expanse of Sugnoma Lived.

Phillip heard the man mumbling to himself ahead of him, and even with the ears of a young healthy boy, he couldn’t make out a single recognizable word. He tried to initiate conversation a couple of times, but got no response at all from his hooded guide.

“Where are you leading me mister?”

No response.

“At least tell me if it’s much farther.”

Still nothing. Phillip turned his face to the ground again, and kicked dirt up as he trudged along. As Phillip was gazing at the spray of dust shooting from his boot tip, his eyes fell upon the end of the man’s cloak. To Phillip it looked like the darkest night’s sky, only shimmering and fluid. Once his eyes had set on the cloak, Phillip found it impossible to turn away. Instead his mind took him deeper and deeper into the expanse of the garment. Before long he was ambling along mindlessly, completely engrossed in this...this..

“What are you wearing?” He asked suddenly, his thought track running beyond his mind and out through his mouth.

That got the man’s attention. He stopped abruptly; Phillip almost smacked right into him. At first the man only belted out a generous round of laughter. Maniacal laughter, there was no doubt.

“Aye, ‘tis quite a spectacle to such as you, I’m sure.” The cloaked man sighed and wiped tears from his eyes with the side of his right hand. Phillip had a feeling that there were no tears, and the actions were merely part of a grand act.

“A spectacle? Sure, I guess. Whatever that means. But what is it made out of? I mean, no seamstress, or tailor that I’ve ever seen could make something like this.” Phillip was studying every inch of the cloak but couldn’t find a single...

IV

“There’s no seams, boy, if that’s what your after.”

The man laughed heartily again, and scruffed up the boy’s hair, like an older brother would his young sibling. “At your age, I doubt if you’ve met three tailors that were outside of your immediate kin. Furthermore, the way in which this cloak was constructed is far beyond your current limit of comprehension. I don’t say this to sound smug, no, but to help you adjust to the plethora of changes you’re soon to experience.” The man flashed this boy, who had no idea he was already this man’s apprentice, a genuine warm smile.

“A.. Ple.. Plethora?” Phillip sounded the word out like he was reading scripture from Classes. The man laughed copiously at this, turned on his heels and carried on walking.

“Walk up here boy, aye, abreast with me.” The man put his left arm around Phillip's shoulders. The boy felt warm in comparison to the icy fingers of the cloaked man.

“Worry not of my cloak, or the words I choose. Tell me now of your story. Leave out no detail, as I am sure your tale, in every facet will hold great regard to our further adventures together.”

Phillip looked at the man with one eyebrow raised in an expression of amused confusion. The boy smiled and shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and told his tale.