Showing posts with label prose 500 contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose 500 contest. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 May 2020
Harshita Nanda, First Prize, Prose 500, 2020
The Wedding Saree
It was an old steel trunk, which had traveled half across the country and back, but still in pristine condition as it was always covered with a cloth to protect it from dust. Whenever she opened it, once in a few months, the daughters would gather around, as if drawn by a magnet and aware that something precious was to be revealed.
And treasure’s there were a plenty in that old steel trunk. On top a lovely blue organza saree.
“This saree was given to me by your grandmother as part of my trousseau, she bought it for me
from all the way from Sahranpur,” she would narrate. Below it the chocolate and gold Benarasi silk, it’s gold shimmering in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The silver kaliras that she wore for the wedding; the red velvet handbag she had taken for the vidai, now too impractical to be used; the silver surmedaani, a family heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter. All things part of her wedding, all with their stories, all with their memories.
embroidered in gold. “Real gold thread was used for this”, she would say with pride, for in this age
of adulteration, reality was hard to come by. She would then narrate how she designed the saree
herself, how grandfather, in spite of all the other expenses, paid for the gold thread.
Of how that saree, became her bridal saree. The young daughters gathered around, listening to her, mesmerized, inwardly longing for the day when they would also be dressed as a bride in the same saree. It was almost as if the saree had the magic of dreams of a young bride and the blessings of parents sewn in the lotuses embroidered on the border.
As the daughters grew of marriageable age, however, practicalities overtook the magic.
The saree was too thin or the gold embroidery was not in fashion anymore.
Worst of all, none of the daughters inherited her petite frame,
so the length of saree would fall short; re-designing it would be a sacrilege.
the trunk, there are no young girls with dreams surrounding her, while she looks at the saree.
Underneath the mustiness of moth balls, she can still catch a whiff of the dreams
she dreamt forty years ago.
It was an old steel trunk, which had traveled half across the country and back, but still in pristine condition as it was always covered with a cloth to protect it from dust. Whenever she opened it, once in a few months, the daughters would gather around, as if drawn by a magnet and aware that something precious was to be revealed.
And treasure’s there were a plenty in that old steel trunk. On top a lovely blue organza saree.
“This saree was given to me by your grandmother as part of my trousseau, she bought it for me
from all the way from Sahranpur,” she would narrate. Below it the chocolate and gold Benarasi silk, it’s gold shimmering in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The silver kaliras that she wore for the wedding; the red velvet handbag she had taken for the vidai, now too impractical to be used; the silver surmedaani, a family heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter. All things part of her wedding, all with their stories, all with their memories.
Nestled at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper and covered with department store plastic
was the real treasure for which the daughters used to gather around. A gossamer-thin red saree, embroidered in gold. “Real gold thread was used for this”, she would say with pride, for in this age
of adulteration, reality was hard to come by. She would then narrate how she designed the saree
herself, how grandfather, in spite of all the other expenses, paid for the gold thread.
Of how that saree, became her bridal saree. The young daughters gathered around, listening to her, mesmerized, inwardly longing for the day when they would also be dressed as a bride in the same saree. It was almost as if the saree had the magic of dreams of a young bride and the blessings of parents sewn in the lotuses embroidered on the border.
As the daughters grew of marriageable age, however, practicalities overtook the magic.
The saree was too thin or the gold embroidery was not in fashion anymore.
Worst of all, none of the daughters inherited her petite frame,
so the length of saree would fall short; re-designing it would be a sacrilege.
The saree continued to languish in its steel trunk.
And thus in an old and now battered steel trunk lies wrapped in the tissue,
a red wedding saree embroidered in gold, a saree worn only once. Once in few months she still opens the trunk, there are no young girls with dreams surrounding her, while she looks at the saree.
Underneath the mustiness of moth balls, she can still catch a whiff of the dreams
she dreamt forty years ago.
Anila Mathew, Second Prize, Prose 500, 2020
Feast
One after the other, licked slowly, smoothly, almost seductively. Insatiable hunger billowed in the breathtakingly scenic locales. There was no human noise. No gunshots, no whizzing of arrows, no stretches of slingshots or stones, no roars of anger, no whimpers or pitiful cries, no shows of superior interference.
Most of the original dwellers had already fled or flown away in haste. The air grew thick with the smell of the sumptuous banquet. The lusty embrace literally sucked the soul out of lives.
The feasting dragon moved ahead without stopping to pause for even a moment. No force could resist its charm and secrets buried deep in history were divulged without hesitation. All surrendered before its magnetic vigour.
The insanely intelligent however, discussed, pondered, debated. The uncouth and uncivilized tried to protect the concealed treasure. The rulers were dismissive. After all, they had unleashed this roaring outsider. As long as it didn’t reach the palace grounds, it was free to roam and devour.
As few clamoured for protecting the ravishing beauty, there were rude rebukes and admonitions from the ruler and his faithful citizens.
More sympathetic voices arose from other fiefdoms. Yet, nobody was permitted to pry. Didn’t these incidents happen everywhere? Why sully the name of only one, when such shenanigans were commonplace? Words of all sorts flowed freely.
The passionate, one-sided affair meanwhile continues unabated. The blinkered humans callously turn their back on their mother, who has been trying to appeal to their scientific spirit. Her strength has begun ebbing out slowly.
Feeding human greed and avarice, majestic flora and fauna lay down their lives in charred heaps. Yet the fire to conquer, rages on.
The Tribune
Updated 31 August 2019, 00:10
Over 17% of the Amazon forest has been lost to deforestation.
Most of the original dwellers had already fled or flown away in haste. The air grew thick with the smell of the sumptuous banquet. The lusty embrace literally sucked the soul out of lives.
The feasting dragon moved ahead without stopping to pause for even a moment. No force could resist its charm and secrets buried deep in history were divulged without hesitation. All surrendered before its magnetic vigour.
The insanely intelligent however, discussed, pondered, debated. The uncouth and uncivilized tried to protect the concealed treasure. The rulers were dismissive. After all, they had unleashed this roaring outsider. As long as it didn’t reach the palace grounds, it was free to roam and devour.
As few clamoured for protecting the ravishing beauty, there were rude rebukes and admonitions from the ruler and his faithful citizens.
More sympathetic voices arose from other fiefdoms. Yet, nobody was permitted to pry. Didn’t these incidents happen everywhere? Why sully the name of only one, when such shenanigans were commonplace? Words of all sorts flowed freely.
The passionate, one-sided affair meanwhile continues unabated. The blinkered humans callously turn their back on their mother, who has been trying to appeal to their scientific spirit. Her strength has begun ebbing out slowly.
Feeding human greed and avarice, majestic flora and fauna lay down their lives in charred heaps. Yet the fire to conquer, rages on.
The Tribune
Updated 31 August 2019, 00:10
Over 17% of the Amazon forest has been lost to deforestation.
Mankirat Randhawa, Third Prize, Prose 500, 2020
I Held A Moment
And then there were days when I gazed into a mysterious infinite in my mind, thinking what to write. Not that I did not have anything to begin with. There was so much on my plate, it felt like a whirlwind, and I, standing in the middle of it. Helplessly, looking out of that dynamic vortex, to hold onto the exact words and to hold onto the exact sentences, that I wanted to jot down.
I let this whirlwind tame the melancholies in my mind that I grew.
Then the warmth of stillness hushed my stormy heart and I found a calm within. The calm felt like I was floating in the same mysterious infinite. But it felt serene, like I found myself holding onto the words I was searching for. They would rise and fall on paper like tides on water. It felt like that prattle inside was finally resting.
I smiled at the elation that touched me in sweet silence.
Warily, finding my little joys with each paper I filled, every word, that I was able to hold onto. While my mind kept floating in that same infinite of mine. While I kept picking the words to form sentences I needed.
As I now knew, the clamour inside was my subdue.
The moment was seized by the little treats I gave myself of ending it all with a dot of content.
And then there were days when I gazed into a mysterious infinite in my mind, thinking what to write. Not that I did not have anything to begin with. There was so much on my plate, it felt like a whirlwind, and I, standing in the middle of it. Helplessly, looking out of that dynamic vortex, to hold onto the exact words and to hold onto the exact sentences, that I wanted to jot down.
I let this whirlwind tame the melancholies in my mind that I grew.
Then the warmth of stillness hushed my stormy heart and I found a calm within. The calm felt like I was floating in the same mysterious infinite. But it felt serene, like I found myself holding onto the words I was searching for. They would rise and fall on paper like tides on water. It felt like that prattle inside was finally resting.
I smiled at the elation that touched me in sweet silence.
Warily, finding my little joys with each paper I filled, every word, that I was able to hold onto. While my mind kept floating in that same infinite of mine. While I kept picking the words to form sentences I needed.
As I now knew, the clamour inside was my subdue.
The moment was seized by the little treats I gave myself of ending it all with a dot of content.
Megha Nayar, Prose 500 2020 Shortlist
The Sunset Lovers
It is a monsoon morning, and I wake up to the promise of some well-timed therapy.
A dust storm has brewed all night, leaving behind a thin film all over the house. The specks catch my eye first thing, and before I know it, vitality begins to throb anew in my veins.
I brush vigorously, ridding my teeth of much imagined squalor. As the brush runs over each tooth, I imagine a thick yellowness lifting. My mouth feels like the spring. I wash my face and comb my hair, both slightly alleviating the disarray in my heart. A bath beckons too, but it’ll be sweeter post the cleansing.
Five minutes later, I am armed with a wet dust cloth, a sponge, a bowl of water and a spray can. I begin with the TV cabinet – that is where most of the dust has chosen to settle. With a dramatic swipe, I run my armour over the intrusion, gathering up the muck and depositing it in the water bowl. Satisfied, I grab a look at the dust cloth – it’s turned a muddy brown already.
Over the next hour, I go from the cabinet to the couch, the study table, and then to the windows. With each swipe that uproots layers of dust, I feel my senses come awake. With each move, I feel my balance return.
The cleansing over, I collapse into my armchair. Sunshine has begun to stream into the room, filling my mind with its own sweet music. The yellow walls appear jaundiced no more, and the chirping of the birds isn’t grating on my ears. The morning has returned, her glories in tow. Or maybe I now see her better, with a sanitised heart.
I think Nature knows just when to invade my home. She comes visiting just when I’m beginning to lose my resolve to face the sunrise.
*****
Entry 2: Getting Appa to agree
He was engrossed in the newspaper. Today, the big news was the new-found friendship between America and North Korea. He read the special edition cover-to-cover.
In his 64 years, Manichandran Iyer had never stepped out of Mangalore. But reading international headlines made him feel in control, like he was in sync with the world. It gave him power and superiority.
Anushree lingered in a corner. She wanted an approval from him but was considering her chances. The prospect of rejection was petrifying. No, she couldn’t allow that. He had to agree.
Anushree had always been a “good girl”. The open book types. The kind of kid whose confidence comes not from having a high self-worth, but from having nothing to hide.
Today though, she felt her approach would have to change. A straight question would not do. This game needed strategy and new moves.
“Appa...” she ventured.
“Yes?”
“Remya and Dhivi chose Mumbai for their internships.”
Silence.
“Remya got Indian Express and Dhivi got The Hindu.”
Silence.
“Surprisingly, both their dads agreed.”
Silence.
“Venkat Uncle and Padma Aunty were asking me too… but I told them you wouldn’t allow me. So the college will send me to a local newspaper here only.”
Silence.
“So, the Placement Council is thinking of approaching Mangalore Daily for me.”
His head was churning. She could hear it. The mention of the other dads had triggered it. She waited.
The answer took a full twenty minutes coming.
“You can also go to Mumbai. Will give you my authorisation letter today. But, be very careful. Don’t let me down.”
“Thanks, appa!”
The game had paid off. Ego had defeated patriarchy.
It is a monsoon morning, and I wake up to the promise of some well-timed therapy.
A dust storm has brewed all night, leaving behind a thin film all over the house. The specks catch my eye first thing, and before I know it, vitality begins to throb anew in my veins.
I brush vigorously, ridding my teeth of much imagined squalor. As the brush runs over each tooth, I imagine a thick yellowness lifting. My mouth feels like the spring. I wash my face and comb my hair, both slightly alleviating the disarray in my heart. A bath beckons too, but it’ll be sweeter post the cleansing.
Five minutes later, I am armed with a wet dust cloth, a sponge, a bowl of water and a spray can. I begin with the TV cabinet – that is where most of the dust has chosen to settle. With a dramatic swipe, I run my armour over the intrusion, gathering up the muck and depositing it in the water bowl. Satisfied, I grab a look at the dust cloth – it’s turned a muddy brown already.
Over the next hour, I go from the cabinet to the couch, the study table, and then to the windows. With each swipe that uproots layers of dust, I feel my senses come awake. With each move, I feel my balance return.
The cleansing over, I collapse into my armchair. Sunshine has begun to stream into the room, filling my mind with its own sweet music. The yellow walls appear jaundiced no more, and the chirping of the birds isn’t grating on my ears. The morning has returned, her glories in tow. Or maybe I now see her better, with a sanitised heart.
I think Nature knows just when to invade my home. She comes visiting just when I’m beginning to lose my resolve to face the sunrise.
*****
Entry 2: Getting Appa to agree
He was engrossed in the newspaper. Today, the big news was the new-found friendship between America and North Korea. He read the special edition cover-to-cover.
In his 64 years, Manichandran Iyer had never stepped out of Mangalore. But reading international headlines made him feel in control, like he was in sync with the world. It gave him power and superiority.
Anushree lingered in a corner. She wanted an approval from him but was considering her chances. The prospect of rejection was petrifying. No, she couldn’t allow that. He had to agree.
Anushree had always been a “good girl”. The open book types. The kind of kid whose confidence comes not from having a high self-worth, but from having nothing to hide.
Today though, she felt her approach would have to change. A straight question would not do. This game needed strategy and new moves.
“Appa...” she ventured.
“Yes?”
“Remya and Dhivi chose Mumbai for their internships.”
Silence.
“Remya got Indian Express and Dhivi got The Hindu.”
Silence.
“Surprisingly, both their dads agreed.”
Silence.
“Venkat Uncle and Padma Aunty were asking me too… but I told them you wouldn’t allow me. So the college will send me to a local newspaper here only.”
Silence.
“So, the Placement Council is thinking of approaching Mangalore Daily for me.”
His head was churning. She could hear it. The mention of the other dads had triggered it. She waited.
The answer took a full twenty minutes coming.
“You can also go to Mumbai. Will give you my authorisation letter today. But, be very careful. Don’t let me down.”
“Thanks, appa!”
The game had paid off. Ego had defeated patriarchy.
Bindu Saxena, Prose 500 2020, Longlist
23 December 2019: Hurtling along in Duronto Express, I breezed down to Goa
for a week-long holiday. I wanted some time for solo walks, long writing sessions,
and other quiet, thoughtful things, and also looked forward to meeting absolute
strangers.
Mr. Sharma, an elderly person clad in humble dhoti kurta occupied the opposite lower berth.
A young couple, Kiku and Sharda, were the other occupants to our curtained enclosure
for the next 9hrs. I was tucking into my dinner when Sharda, generously proffered
their Chicken sandwiches. The couple got off at Ratnagiri, thankfully without rousing
me out of my sleep.
Sharing my experiences with Mr. Sharma was a divine experience.
We traversed the 4 stages of life in Hindu Philosophy and Gandhiji’s vision
for rural self-employment and the activities of self-sustaining Khadi weaving groups.
He advised me, ‘Write, as that is the talent God has given you.’
Widening the narrow definition of ‘family,’ he said, “Society is your family.
Help those whom you can.”
My journey ended at Madgaon. It was at the platform that my eyes met Ajay,
a beggar, stricken with polio legs. He traveled in sleeper coaches surviving
on the largesse of pantry attendants. While the simplicity of Sham impressed me,
the freshness of the couple refreshed me, but monetary help to Ajay seemed
to have blessed me...
30 December 2019: I chose to return by air. As I ambled across the tarmac to board
Vistara to Bombay, I was wrapped in the attic of my memories when I saw a wheelchair
being pushed and come towards us from the aircraft that just arrived.
“Flashy life, I thought”, to be wheeled in a chair but it’s only when I was alongside
that I peeped at the person who commanded this honor: A crumpled body,
eyes closed pointing skyward. It was a young boy who was a spastic.
An old lady pushed him breathlessly yet cheerfully. She didn’t seek any assistance
from the staff to trundle her labor of love.
A child is a tempting hope, but in him, I saw the ‘missing pieces’ that script the human
times. The open lips and gape were all I saw - and the ruins of a city that craved
for rebirth.
I reached home with a myriad of scenes flashing before my eyes.
This was my first solo trip and I realized, from lips to lips you see cities
and experience lives that live in them, regardless of whether these speak
or remain in eloquent silence. The imprints these leave color your being and transform you.
These seven days not only did I visit the place I intended to, but innumerable places
that I could never have, otherwise.
Aftab Yusuf Shaikh, Prose 500, 2020, Shortlist
Maitri, Mother And The French Language
Father advised me to go for shorthand training. According to him that would keep me engaged
at least for a few hours. And he wasn’t wrong.
‘But what is the use of learning it?’ I asked.
‘You want to be a writer, right?’ He asked. And it gladdened me that my father was interested
in what I want to become.
‘Yes. But what has that got to do with typing?’ The foolish me had really no idea.
‘You have to type your manuscript when you intend to send it to a publisher. You cannot send them
handwritten work. And if you do send, those poor people will definitely go mad deciphering your army
of ants.’
So, eventually, I joined a typing class. I was amused by the dance of my fingers along with the keys
and there were many sweet faces for the soothing of my eyes.
From among those half a dozen girls, one, as usual, became quite special for me. Her oval face,
straight nose, dusky complexion and ahem-- rosy lips, enchanted me. But I did not give her
more than a couple of looks. I do this with every girl I like. I think they feel proud when you look at them.
I ignored her for one fortnight. It was a kind of funny, both of us would pretend to ignore each other
though we kept looking sideways at each other. I had started experiencing all those things
which are shown relative to love in Hindi movies. On seeing her, my throat went dry,
my palms got flooded with sweat, my lips shivered at room temperature.
I was quite sure it was my first love.
That Monday, in the fourth week, we talked. What a shiver it was which I felt when she said
those sweet words. ‘Lend me a page.’
I kept tossing in my bed that night, recollecting the same words as if they were
the commencement of a historical love saga.
The next morning when I woke up, my mother got me in a big confusion.
‘Son, how are you liking the class?
‘Yes, Ma, why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘I do. The place is amazing. Time smoothly passes when I am there. I am thankful father gave this idea.’
‘Who is this Maitri?’ mother asked, hiding her intense curiosity.
‘Maitri? Who? I don’t know, Ma.’ I blabbered.
‘Well, son, Maitri is the name you kept repeating the whole night.’
‘Was I?’
‘Uhmm..yes.’
‘Really!’ And in that very moment I made up an excuse.
‘Oh Ma! You know I am learning French. Maitri is the French word for mother. I know
you will not believe. I love you so much and Maitri is the first word in French I memorized.’
‘Oh my dear son,’ she smiled and grabbed me in a tight hug. The expression on her face
was mysterious.
This way, that day, maybe, I fooled my mother, who didn’t know a single word of French.
French, that mysterious language. French, the national language of Bangladesh.
Christian Danbey, Prose 500 2020, Longlist
One of the ways you definitely don't shoot people is with your closed.
Abigail Duro, Prose 500 2020, Shortlist
The Black Swan by Abigail Duro
The year is 1981 and the world is full of possibilities, at least for the bunch of scientists here. They all grew up together knowing well that they would all end up at Caltech and that they would be astrophysicists, and that Adam Dreyfus would be their head. And even with no fortunetelling involved, all of this came true. However, what couldn't be predicted was how Avram Berenson, oldest of Adam's friend, would be the only one who would drift away, so far off the course, that no one could ever retrieve him.
Not that Avram himself wanted to
be rescued. He could have been an astrophysicist just like all of them.
He was brilliant in his academics. Around this time he started moving
away. Drunk on Nikola Tesla's work, they would venture out on what they called
their "discovery tours". They had scoured Tesla's work at the library
for simple technological experiments, then tried on his "magical"
writing, even running off to see Tesla's apartment in New York at one
point. But as university started, and Adam got busy and Avram slowly
started to steer in a different direction.
When he started reading the Talmud a bit too much, Adam assumed it was his religious parents. When he started his meditation experiments, Adam teased him if it was a wireless method to contact Tesla. Adam liked such quirkiness in the genius around him. After all his wife was an astrology buff. And it was she who had said that Avram's Saturn in the eighth could take him to different dimensions or realms. Whatever that meant! But he only ever suspected something when his other friends started making excuses not to hang out with Avram. Avram was called many names, 'A Quack', 'The Black Swan' by his friends. But the one person who never called him anything was Dreyfus. People assumed it was Adam's humility. But Adam knew kindness and humility had no part to play in this.
But then that day it happened, and Adam was left
with an emotional and mental void never to be filled. The thing that became a fodder for local conspiracy nuts.
Missing
him too much or perhaps due to guilt, Adam vowed to spend an entire day
with Avram. Right away, he noticed how often Avram would get phased out
between conversations. But Adam could only feel sympathy for his
weirdo. Then he suddenly got excited, "Hey Adam, I have been waiting to
try something for sometime. It's great you are here. Do you want to see
what I found?" Yes, said Adam half-excited but more worried. Avram asked
them to enter his study. It was dark and seemed overgrown with some
kind of root system which could have been less scary because as Avram
switched on the lights, one could see that every inch of the room was
covered in intricate drawings or some forgotten language. Adam was
speechless, then on the ground he found an elaborate circular system of measuring
devices and monitors. He switched it on, entered this 'portal'. Something within Adam wanted to stop him, but things happened at such speed, that right in front of his eyes, Avram vanished. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming but no. Then he wondered if this was a sleight of hand but not that either. As if on cue, Avram's parents entered, Adam was still forming sentences in his mind but they seemed to know. All hell broke loose, cops were called, Adam's statements were recorded. Then he was ordered in the meanest of voices to never speak of what he saw to anyone ever, Avram's room was ransacked, papers were confiscated and Adam was made to sign papers he wasn't allowed to read, and as in a drunken stupor, he caved. Days and nights after that Adam kept wondering what had happened? Had Avram become a bit of Tesla himself?
Sanika Shinde, Prose 500 2020, Longlist
Paradox by Sanika Shinde
We were a pair to be looked at- with awe and suspicion. I am just a mother with a daughter as loved as any mother would; the traditional archetypal mother who loves unconditionally and can feel the child's emotion from a distance, not the cruel one from the noir movies.
She walked next to me with her blonde hair, blue eyes and perfect Marathi.
Amar Agarwala, Prose 500 2020, Shortlist
A Tale From The Wild West
Sam Mendiz was known to be a good man, He was the designated Sheriff and guardian who defended the town of Santa Fe as if it were his home. The day Cano Navarro rode into town, he knew it was a bad omen. Cano was not just an infamous shootist, but the quickest draw in the Chihuahua desert. The man had the blood of many an innocent on his hands and meant big trouble wherever he set foot.
It did not take long for Cano to get into an ugly brawl with the townsfolk at the ramshackle bar, the only watering trough in the shanty town. Before long he shot and nearly killed the local banker Joe Delmer. News travelled fast to the Sheriff’s office and soon an angry Mendiz confronted Cano, who sought a gunfight saying, “You can keep your law as long as you can take me on. The winner takes it all Sheriff.”
“Get to the main street you rotten scoundrel, am ready,” the fearless Mendiz replied.
They stood facing one another – cowboy hats shading their eyes, revolvers sheathed by their holsters and hands hanging limply by their sides. The townsfolk waited to watch the gunfight with baited breath, when Santiago – the Sheriff’s page boy was asked to toss a copper coin. They’d draw the moment the coin hit the ground.
A split second before the coin hit the ground, a ruthless Cano drew and fired across the thirty yards before an eye could blink. The bullet struck Mendiz below the heart, and the Sheriff fell dead, his hands yet on the holster of his revolver.
The orphaned Santiago rushed where the Sheriff lay, the boy was inordinately fond of the man who had bought him up like a son. He then pulled out the heavy revolver from Mendiz’s holster and stood up, “Hey Mister... how bout another duel?”
“Go bury your old man. You need to grow up,” smirked the shootist.
“Bravery has nothing to do with age. Come fight me you coward,” the boy said through clenched teeth.
An astonished Cano half turned and before he fathomed the challenge, Santiago had already tossed the coin high in the air. All eyes along with Cano’s were on the coin as it rose up in the warm air, glinted in the late afternoon sun, before spinning down, by then Santiago had already levelled his gun at Cano and took aim.
Instinctively Cano turned around and drew out his revolver but at that split moment the coin hit the ground and a single shot was fired. The bullet pierced outlaw’s heart... as Santiago stood unblinking, the Sheriff’s revolver still smoking in his hand. He never imagined in his wildest dreams that his lessons with the Sheriff’s in firing a gun could be so effective. As the townsfolk burst into applause, Santiago knew the Sheriff would be proud of him.
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