The town is quiet, eerily so. All animals, all chatter, all gusts of wind have come to a complete stop this morning. A tumbleweed passes by through the center of town and the rocking chair on the Sheriff's porch sways but remains silent. Everything is muted and as the door of the hotel opens, the only sensation that rings utterly true today is this:
This is the end.
Suddenly, the church bells ring -- twelve rings to mark the hour and the door to the Sheriff's station swings open on the twelfth. The Sheriff tucks his thumbs into his belt loops and walks across the strip of town right to the door of the Saloon. A moment later, he knocks on the door frame, loud enough to alert anyone who might be inside.
"Alright, folks. Come on out. Time to end this."
And then he turns his back and walks back into the middle of the street, waiting.
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robowest2017-03-03 06:00 pm
