Winner of The Wild West Fiction Writing Prompt Contest!

It’s time to announce the winner of last week’s Wild West writing contest! We had many inventive entries and we’d like to thank everyone who participated.

The winning entry comes to us from Molly Neely, who’s wonderful descriptions brought the ghosts of the old west to life. Congrats Molly!

Check out last week’s writing prompt and the winning entry below!

Prompt: For this week’s writing prompt, we’re heading deep into the wild west, a land where gunslingers and cattle rustlers roamed freely and where the law could be hard to find. The people who carved out a life among the untamed frontier had to be tough in order to survive. You may have heard the stories and the legends, but can you create a legend of your own?

Items to include:

A Widow
Insects
A daring enterprise

 

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Mingling with Bodie’s Ghosts

By Molly Neely

The heat is so heavy, it’s as if you can chew it
Baring down, I can almost reach up and touch the sun
There’s a dry, parching wind, swirling the dust along the street
The weeds cry out, silent dehydrated screams of mercy

The tour begins at the old Shell gas pump, planted at the end of the road
My eyes wide, I fixate immediately on the rusted bullet holes
I’m surrounded by camera clicks, capturing the faded moment
Echoes of technology are strolling down the streets of Bodie

We stop at the old saloon, its crusted windows holding back time
I can hear the clinking of glass, the shuffling of boots against wood
the clack- clack-clack of a splintered roulette wheel, and I am lost in it

As I move on to the hotel, giggles and whispers drift down from the balcony
ladies of the night, catcalling the miners as they pass on the street
A hand covers my eyes, while another ushers me past the harlots
my face burns hot, not from the sun, but from knowledge of the forbidden

Further down, I stop and mourn the burned remains of a church
its bell still ringing, calling the faithful and long departed to mass
Faintly I hear singing, the choir lifting its hollow voice to the Lord
The words are forgotten, and yet somehow can still be felt

I am distracted by voices, coming from the general store
laughter and cussing and dickering, as men buy and sell their goods
I pick up the pace, sensing a tension in the stagnant air
a shot rings out, but of course, there’s no shooter

The clatter of carriages and the clomping of hooves excite me
I can smell the stench of horse apples, sweat, and black powder
The jingling of coin, the creaking of scales, the striking of matches
I drink in the music, a symphony of wild west life, and I am lost in it
I feel the buzzing flies, searching for moisture on my neck
while the sound of a tinny piano wafts down the dusty street
its tune is disrupted by the wailing of a black-garbed widow
Carrying a clump of wildflowers to an overcrowded Boot Hill

At the end of the road, the tour abruptly ends
The voices of the present, rush back into my ears
I stand before the cemetery, with its cockeyed gates and worn headstones
And can’t help but feel as though a part of me is buried in those graves

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For more of Molly’s work, stop in and check out her author page!

For those of you who missed out on last week’s contest, check out our current active contest or sign up for our newsletter to get the latest in news and updates.