We’re Both Here, I Guess —Breana Galea

When he got back, the beans were eaten. Good.

The kid was staring out the only window, moonbeams in his eyes. The moon glazed them grey.

He dumped his hat on the kid’s head, his neck bending forward under the weight. His eyes peeked at him from under the hat.

“Look kid, I ain’t much for words, butcha can stay here ’til yer dad comes back—yuh hear? Just don’t go wanderin’ in the desert ’gain.”

The kid paused, then nodded. With tight lips, he turned back to the window, the hat hiding his eyes. He’d go again.

They Were Glowing —Breana Galea

They began as bioluminescent pinpricks on the dark horizon, wavering on a tide of sand. The larger they grew, the more townspeople gathered. A low grumble hummed, waking the night breeze.

When they stopped, the wave of dust following them collapsed to the ground. Their faces were covered by wide-brimmed hats, eluding the dim moonlight. As their horses shifted and stamped, space seemed to ripple, teasing their glowing marks. The sound intensified. I covered my ears. The ground rumbled and throbbed, sand sieving into an ever-larger vortex in the dunes. Glowing eyes watched.

That’s how we became a ghost town.

Unlearned, Unhinged —Claire Le Blond

You know when you write their name, it’s serious.

I’m tempted. Truly. With a pistol fast running out of ink, do I waste its last words on a name that cares not for mine?

I demand redemption. A Western redemption, for a Southeast Asian girl. I am the cowboy, the not-so-lone ranger marching through the smoke, triggered by intuition, my personal firing range. I am the bartender, saccharine lips along glass rims. I am the jailer, locking my heart away, letting the tumbleweed float along abandoned in my overly rational mind.

I am my own Western.

I redeem myself.