Flash Fiction 1st Place: Tracey Miller Becomes a Cowgirl (Again) by Sharon Boyle
She whips out a pistol and shoots him. Bang, bang, you’re dead. Tracey isn’t taking the looks anymore. And they can tack up as many Not Wanted posters as they like because she’s vamoosing town anyway. Going where the river sparkles silver in the sun and the pot-holed roads smooth into cool-washed prairies.
She needs money for a horse, so goes prospectin’ at the bank where the lemon-faced bank teller who reeks of cheap baccy declares, Miss Miller, you have no funds. Tracey points a gun at the teller and bang, bangs him into oblivion.
Sheesh, the looks from the folks at the bus-stop: unfriendly, judgy, wary. Out comes the gun. Three bloodied corpses on the pavement; a smokin’ heap of guts ‘n’ gore. Tracey hoots a don’t-mess-with-me laugh, swigs some liquor and swaggers off, spurs clinking on concrete.
She’s shot up half the town by the time she turns the corner and spies a horse – a beautiful dappled bronco. It stands stock still and patient, waiting for her. She loops her rope, lassoes the neck and vaults onto its back like she was born to rodeo. She whoops and yee-haas and waves her hat and slaps the horse’s rump and scares the bejesus out of the kids and pisses off the horse dealer who thinks he’s seen everything but look, here’s another story to tell the lads in the pub.
The dealer sidles through the crowd of horses and with his fag saliva-stuck to his bottom lip, hollers, Oi, mind getting aff ma carousel, ya numpty? which Tracey hears as this town ain’t big enough for the both of us, sweetheart, and takes out her pistol and shoots him square between his hang-dog eyes that look as if they’ve seen everything and not liked any of it. She shoots again and laughs as he slumps against a black stallion, clutching his stomach that blooms a pool of crimson.
And here’s the screechy peal of the sheriff’s car coming to get her and she’s too late (again) to skedaddle. She clings to her horse’s neck, and they have to prise off her fingers and force her into the sheriff’s car. She wants to shoot the townsfolk dead with their gawping and giggling and head shaking and she’s gone loco, everyone knows it. Would too if her hands weren’t cuffed. Bang, bang, bang, you’re ALL dead.
But she lays her head against the window, leeching its cool feel, knowing that folks never stay dead, no matter how much she shoots. Always springing up with their hurt-pokes and nippy laughs, their aim hitting hard and true so she clutches her stomach and goes down and stays down.
But she won’t let them see the bullet holes. And she won’t let them see her tears, because everyone knows cowgirls don’t cry.
