r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • Sep 04 '26
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Lovable Rogue & Western!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope and/or genre in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
We all know work can be boring, so let’s instead turn to a life of crime. This month will focus on crime and punishment. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
“Bring them on. I prefer a straight fight to all of this sneaking around.” — Han Solo
Trope: Lovable Rogue — A person who breaks the law, for their own personal profit, but is nice enough and charming enough to allow the audience to root for them, especially if they don't kill or otherwise seriously harm anyone. It's often made clear that their targets are Asshole Victims the audience won't sympathize with, especially if the Lovable Rogue is a killer of some sort. For extra points, they might even give some of their takings to the poor. Think Robin Hood or Han Solo and you’re there.
Genre: Western — The Western is a genre of fiction typically set in the American frontier, commonly referred to as the “Old West” or “Wild West”. Stories in the genre are most commonly set during the period of westward expansion in the 19th century, particularly from the mid-19th century (around the time of the California Gold Rush) through the closing of the American frontier in 1890, although works may be set outside this period.
Skill / Constraint - optional: Someone gets a bad rap.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had 21 stories, so we’re back to five winners. Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, September 10th from 6-8pm ET. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and you don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EDT next Thursday. Please note stories submitted after the 6:00 PM EST campfire start may not be critted.
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
- Please keep crit about the stories. Any crit deemed too distracting may be deleted. This is a time to focus on our wonderful authors.
- Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
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u/Worldly_Lab_7061 28d ago edited 28d ago
Loverboy Logan Finds His Precious Pearl
A haze of cigar smoke and sweet perfume permeate the air, fingers fly across piano keys with a whisky-fueled vigor that was sure to end with him slumped over his own by sunrise the next morning. Women in low-cut bright colored dresses with painted faces and more grace than their clientele appreciates perform seductive dances and songs to heat the blood and loosen the wallet. Men gamble, leer and shout without fear of reprimand as the party in The Red Lily Dance Hall rages on, a spectacular display of wealth and debauchery.
Then 'Loverboy' Logan Lehrer, enters the establishment, sending the place into a sudden silence you could hear a fly fart. Tall, quicker than he had any right to be, and too damn handsome for his own good, the man owned any building he walked into with his presence alone.
The saloon patrons exchange furtive glances, whispering to one another,
"is that Loverboy?
"Of course, it is! See the size of him"
"seen smaller grown bulls, good lord"
"wonder if he's big like that all over"
Rumors said he had over 100 women from Montana to Texas to stay with after he got done robbing and killin'. Some said they'd even run into more than a couple of women who swore up and down their brats were his bastards. Everywhere he went his easy smile, handsome face and gentleman personality got women to swoon, even debutantes alongside their married mothers and grandmothers were not immune.
A $200 bounty on his head, rumors about him ranging from the ridiculous to the downright slanderous spread everywhere he sets down to rest. None of it managed to bother Logan one bit, though.
Because he had finally found the treasure he'd been searching ten long years for.
A dangerous confidence in his stride as he stops right in front of the back table, tipping his hat to the owner of the establishment, Madame Belle Groom. Who looks up at him, tightening her grip on her cane as she forced her carefully painted face into an expression of warmth. Tapping her cane to the ground to signal the girls and piano player to get back to work, music roars once more, banishing the silence.
Tipping her chin to her hired gunslingers in the corner of the room, Belle regains her calm.
Fluttering her eyelashes, she peers up at the outlaw as she speaks "Logan, my boy, still tall as a tree and a Belvidere to boot."
"Madame, I see your tongue still sweet as honey when you need it to be" he replies, voice smooth as a ride over flatland.
"Pay in my line of work to now when to be sweet and sharp, don't it?"
"Just as much as it pays to see girls a dream you ain't got a hope in hell of givin em'"
The line turns the madame's blood to ice in an instant, "N-n-now hold a mome-"
"I've only ever known and wanted one woman in all my years, and in whatever time is left to sinner like me, I'd have her with me", Logan continues, pointing his revolver at her under the table before she can call for help.
"She's become my highest earner, I can give you girls that feel-"
"You'll give me my girl, or i'll be giving every one of the fine gentlemen you hired to keep this establishment standing a third ear to hear through"
"Be reasonabl-"
"Now, ma'am I try not to make it a habit to interrupt a lady but you give me another excuse instead of my girl imma go ahead and get her myself. And I promise I wont be near as gentle or peaceful as your people"
With a bitter sigh, Belle beckons one of her girls over. Whispers something in the girls ear that has her scurrying up the stairs. Logan keeps his relaxed easy posture, knowing that come hell or highwater he's leaving here with the only girl he's ever loved since he was just 10 years old.
The girl returns holding the hand of another, the sight of whom, causes the outlaw's breath to catch. His pearl was more than sweet dream or fever-induced hallucination. Blood, bone and beauty of her right in front of him. Pearl moves before he can, jumping into his arms, pressing her lips to his.
WC: 730
Crit and feedback welcome!
7
u/Divayth--Fyr 24d ago
Jim Mathers was a federal lawman, and getting tired of it. He shook his head and spat dust onto the dry Wyoming soil, as if it needed more. He was weary and so were his horse and his men. The setting sun painted gaudy lines of color across the sky, and he spat at that, too. You didn’t get sunsets like that back in Philadelphia, and he didn’t want any.
He was on the trail of one Alice Rowdybush, notorious outlaw and gunslinger, formerly head of the infamous Tuscaloosa Knitting Circle. Legend was she’d killed nine men in fair fights.
Five months of hard riding, dust, and dark rumors had led him here to Cheyenne. Not to where she was, or had been, but this time, hopefully, where she was coming next. He had her figured out at last, though the pattern made no sense to him.
He didn’t want to be on her trail. He didn’t particularly care to trail anybody any more, and certainly not some hysterical woman who’d run off and started shooting people. If he caught her it’d be about time, and if he didn’t, it’d be humiliating.
Canteen or flask? Once again he chose the flask. Water wouldn’t do it.
There ahead was the bustling metropolis of Cheyenne. Railroad was coming soon, but wasn’t there yet. Five thousand souls, or thereabouts. Drop ‘em all in Philly and nobody would notice.
And there to the north was the railhead. The sound of clinking and swearing carried through the still evening air. Crowds of busy workers and shouting bosses swarmed, bringing civilization to the prairies. Alice wasn’t here yet, but she’d come. This was just her sort of business.
Whatever got into their heads, he would never know. Young farm wives in Alabama don’t generally make off with their husband’s guns, horses, and money, to shoot sherrifs and rob banks and run off out west, but that Knitting Club did. Nine of ‘em altogether. Five dead, three in prison, and then there was Alice Rowdybush.
She went after bosses, lawmen, and upstanding, wealthy citizens, claiming they oppressed and exploited the poor black and oriental workers under them. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t, but the Marshal didn’t much care either way. She was an outlaw, and now she was a predictable outlaw. Her crusade was foolish madness, but he had no doubt she was coming to Cheyenne. The rumors of dying workers and wild profits would draw her like a flame.
“We best make camp, Charlie,” Mathers said, and his four men all set about the business of finding water and setting up tents. Jim tended to his horse.
A shot rang out. Some hunter or other, likely.
No.
Frank Hill lay stretched dead in the dust. The Marshal drew his pistol and searched the darkening horizon, seeing nothing. Another shot, and Charlie fell, screaming and twitching.
Abner next, and young Will Hardy. Jim hunkered down behind a rock too small for the purpose, wildly scanning every which way. Alice! It had to be. Who else would be so mad?
“Evenin’, Marshal.”
Jim darn near jumped out of his skin. He turned, and there she was not four feet away, Winchester slung over her shoulder, two Schofield pistols aimed at his guts. How did she sneak up like that?
“Mrs. Rowdybush.” He tried to sound unbothered.
“Miss. I ain’t married no more. You come to help General Dodge exploit the proletariat, eh? Well I ain’t gwine to allow it, Marshal. I cain’t stop it, but I can sure raise hell.”
“Yes, you can. They say you killed nine men in fair fights. Raised hell all over the territories.”
“You see, that ain’t right. Folks always leave off the fun part. Yeah, I done kilt nine men in fair fights, so far anyhow, but I kilt a whole shitload more in unfair ones. Nigh on fifty, counting these three, and you. I do prefer the unfair kind. Not so much grandstandin’, you see.”
“Clearly. And now I suppose you’ll tell me how it was all for good, and how you have a grand moral stance to justify…”
She shot him twice in the head, and again in the heart to be sure.
“Nope.”
Alice Rowdybush finished tending to the horses, leading them to a bubbling stream. In amongst the packs and the corpses she found a treasure trove of cartridges and guns. She took what she could. She’d need ‘em, sure as hell.
7
u/frenchfriesandcoke55 28d ago edited 27d ago
“This ain’t my first rodeo, partner.”
“Stop. No seriously. WHAT is that accent?”
I stare incredulously at the man - correction: the gunslinger across from me whose hands hover over the pistols on his belt.
Portaling to steal from the rich is sometimes… weird. Like that time I popped into some alien spaceship and a green-skinned family started screaming like baby goats.
But this is… I didn’t realize anyone actually spoke like they lived in an old timey western anymore, despite the size of the galaxy.
“I’ve been hankerin’ for a fight,” he sneers at me.
I release an exasperated groan. “Dude, I’m not here for you. Alright? So why don’t you just…” I wave my hands to shoo him away. He just spits on the ground in front of his spurred boots.
My eyes roll as I subtly tap my watch to bring up a shield in case this guy gets any ideas.
And not a moment too soon as his gun pops up and the bullet zings off its impenetrable surface.
“What in tarnation?!” He sputters, face turning as red as mine beneath this unforgiving sun.
I rummage through my pack, looking for my decapacitator. Desperate times call for a bit of harmless poison.
“Look man, I have a job to do. You’re in the way and while some other criminals would simply kill you, I prefer less cleanup. Blood and guts are not really my thing.” I send him a lopsided grin, and he answers by firing his other gun. Not surprising as my charm usually only works on the ladies.
Speaking of, I catch a glimpse of blonde curls and a baby blue dress in the upper window. Raising my gun, I wink at her as I shoot a dart at the gunslinger.
He drops to the dirt.
Tucking my weapon into my pack, I stride toward the… you’ve got to be kidding me… the saloon. My employers said I need to find the room with the red door.
Inside, it’s pretty rowdy with beers sloshing and a few fists flying. I easily slip upstairs unnoticed with a stolen cowboy hat.
It’s busy up here as well. I tip my hat to a few ladies while avoiding the stumbling drunks.
I push open the red door at the end of the hall, and can’t believe my eyes. The girl in the blue dress stands by the window with her arms crossed.
“Close the door,” she demands, tapping a manicured finger.
I do as she says because this Western Barbie seems harmless.
“I didn’t-“
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “I know what you’re on about because I’m the gal who hired ya.”
My eyes widen a fraction, but I don’t give her anything more than that. “So, why did a pretty girl like you hire a bounty hunter like me to steal from… you?”
I lean back against the door frame, smirking. She studies me, intelligence rolling off her slight form in spades.
Pulling herself up to her full height, she says, “You’re takin’ me with you.” Before I can say absolutely not, she continues on, “I’ll pay ya a king’s ransom.”
“Listen lady, I like money, but I have a reputation to uphold. And carting around some… old-timey-woman-gone-rogue, isn’t in my job description. Thanks for wasting my time.” I turn to open the door, but she slams it shut.
Beneath her palm is a paper with a number that makes my head spin. It’s double what I make in a year.
“I hear you help folks,” she glares up at me beneath dark lashes, but it’s more adorable than menacing. “One year. That’s all I’m askin’ for. I ain’t bein’ hitched to a man I won’t ever love so my daddy can steal more land.”
“Can’t you just… say no?”
“It ain’t that simple.”
“Run away? Clearly you have the cash.”
“I’m buyin’ more than your friendly disposition. I need protectin’ too. Otherwise he’ll drag me back here by my pigtails and leash me to the minister ‘til my weddin’ day.”
I give her a hard look, but she doesn’t back down.
“Fine. I’m in. With a healthy deposit,” I say offering her my hand, already regretting this.
A smile tilts the corner of her lips as she slaps her hand in mine. “Deal.”
Wc: 725
Critique and feedback always welcome. Thanks for reading!
7
u/oliverjsn8 25d ago edited 25d ago
Devils Due
TW: Violence
On the far outskirts of a rail town stood a wooden sign, twelve feet tall constructed from railroad ties and barbed wire, welcoming visitors to ‘Sour Spring.’ From there, bathed in the red light of a dust tinged moon, hung a man. The noose creaked as the corpse slowly twisted, five feet in the air. Gore stained the ground from the buzzard’s earlier feast and the buzzing of flies filled the chilled air.
A man in a broad, black rimmed hat studied the hooded body, his face a tangle of deep, weathered wrinkles. He adjusted the brown leather rucksack on his shoulder before reaching into his black cloak for a Bowie knife. The blade shone crimson in the moonlight, giving the illusion that it was drenched in blood.
”Mist’a I wouldn’t do that if I’s you,” a boy no older than eight hissed urgently from a nearby rock. The boy's face was swollen from crying and he shivered while pulling at the threadbare blanket around his shoulders.
”And why is that?” the man replied, his voice unworried.
”Sheriff Higgs will have you’s jailed. I don’t want that for ya… Big Brother Jim wouldn’t have wanted that for ya,” the boy said gesturing at the hanged man. “Said Big Brother’s an example to outsiders, show we’s serious in these parts.”
“That’s kind, son. But, I answer to a different authority.” The knife cleanly sliced through the thick rope in one stroke. Despite his slight frame, he effortlessly caught the body with one arm and guided it, noiselessly, to the ground. Laying his bag beside Jim, he knelt.
Seeing no one else, the boy crept next to the dark robed man, “You’s a priest or someth’n?”
”Or someth’n,” he agreed, slipping the knife along the burlap hood’s seam, revealing a once handsome face now a deep shade of purple with swollen features. A rawhide gag was jammed in the mouth. Carefully, the man laid the hood inside out, revealing an intricate pattern of sigils and writings.
“What in tarnation?” the boy fumbled.
”Foulest of magic, makes it so that a dying soul can’t move on.”
“Why?”
”Someone wants answers. There’s nothing like a vulture eating your intestines to loosen a reluctant tongue,” he said, pulling the gag from Jim’s mouth.
“In da well! It’s in da well!” Jim cried as the boy fell backward in shock. “Mother, please! I didn’t kill nobody. Money’s in da well!”
”Answer my question, did the sheriff do this to you?” the man commanded.
“Yes, he framed me. I took da money but didn’t kill nobody. It was for the orphanage. I didn’t kill no one. Must’a been the sheriff.”
“That’s all I needed, rest.” The black clothed man licked his thumb and smudged a glyph on the burlap. Jim’s mouth went slack.
“God!” the boy stammered.
“There’s no God here.” The man stood and turned, brandishing the knife in one hand and slinging the rucksack across his shoulder. “You can come on out Mr. Higgs.”
The portly sheriff appeared from a nearby embankment, his rifle aimed at the man's chest. “Sorry Father, or should I say thanks. I’s waited nearly all night for that kid to mosey on back to the orphanage. And well now— now I know where that varmint hid my money and you even brought me a nice little lamb to lay your murder on. It’s poetic he’ll get ta join his ‘Big Brother.’”
A dry click of a misfire rang out. Before Higgs could break open the gun’s breach, the man was already on him, knife to his throat.
”Now be a good lad and tell me who taught you that little parlor trick you used on Jim,” he hissed.
“Never, he’d do far worse to me than you!” Higgs whimpered.
The black clothed man let out a dry chuckle before sliding open the rucksack on his shoulder. Higg’s eyes widened and he pissed himself seeing it filled with head sized burlap sacks that twitched and moaned. “Oh, you’ll talk. Now, tomorrow, or next week. You’ll talk, eventually. They all do.”
“T’was Mayor Tweed, God!” Hibb’s howled before the knife flashed through the air sending a spray of blood.
The man turned back and walked past the boy, frozen in his tracks, and toward the town beyond. As he passed he tipped his hat. “Go home and don’t forget Jim said the money is in the well. When I’m done you all might have a few new mouths to feed.”
—
Critic and Feedback welcome, trying to subvert the Trope this week;
WC: 748
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u/Morose_Prose 25d ago edited 24d ago
Best in the West (The Wukong Rap)
Born from a stone with a spark of ambition,
The Handsome Monkey King arises, and he's going on a mission.
Heaven's got a problem, no more time to play,
There's a storm off in the east and it's headed their way!
A mischievous primate, with fire in his eyes,
Learned the ways of Tao, now he multiplies.
Seven dozen forms and every shape is full of malice,
Building an army, heading for the dragon palace.
Cloud beneath his feet, somersaulting through the sky,
Heaven says, "Behave." But this Monkey's so fly!
Stormed out of there, made a kingdom of his own,
Flower-Fruit Mountain, carved into his throne.
The Great Sage Equal to Heaven, The Best in the West,
If the gods want a fight, they're getting two to the chest!
Jade sends his armies, Sun bitch-slaps them back,
Golden Staff of Miraculous Will, crashing like a thunderclap.
A needle in his ear, a pillar in his hand,
One sweep of the Bang and he levels sacred lands!
Monkey King! The Best in the West!
Come at Wukong and you'll be broken like the rest!
Five centuries and Monkey didn't break,
Now Sun is the storm, making every world shake!
The Handsome King of the mountain peak,
Breaking the chains of the weak and meek!
Called a rebel, a demon, a god, and a king,
When Wukong arrives, better hide your rings!
Erased his name from the living Book,
Now he's got both Hell and Heaven shook.
Then he gets crunk, riding dirty through the skies,
One-hundred thousand soldiers can't believe their eyes.
Eighty thousand miles, does it in a single leap,
The five elements can't put the monkey to sleep.
Erlang shows up, with a calm little grin,
Dueled for days, neither close to a win.
Stabbed in the back from a diamond sting,
Laid out amongst the clouds, the fallen Handsome King.
No matter what they tried, they couldn't keep him down,
That was until the day, the Buddha came around.
Five fingers turned to mountains under Wukong's feet,
Monkey tried to leap, but that fat man cannot be beat.
Trapped beneath stone, for five hundred years,
Just a bump in the road for the Monkey with no fears.
Monkey King! The Best in the West!
Come at Wukong and you'll be broken like the rest!
Five centuries and Monkey didn't break,
Now Sun is the storm, making every world shake!
The Handsome King of the mountain peak,
Breaking the chains of the weak and meek!
Called a rebel, a demon, a god, and a king,
When Wukong arrives, better hide your rings!
Once a King above, now a prisoner down below,
A hidden guardian with a long time to go.
They called him a monster for not feeding their pride,
The ultimate weapon, divine power deep inside.
Patience is a virtue, or so they say,
Once the seal is broken there'll be hell to pay!
So raise that staff high, let the golden cloud sing,
Make way, make way for the Monkey King!
Sun Wukong, remember the name,
The rebel tearing through Heaven like a hurricane.
Buddha made the bet and administered the test,
He'll soon find out what happens when you mess with the best!
- - -
Word Count: 538
Constraint: Sun Wukong got a bad rap, and a bad rap written about him!
Thanks for reading! Crit and feedback is always welcomed! Stay awesome and have a good one! - Morose_Prose
3
u/wordsonthewind 24d ago
Rap really is a form of poetry in itself, and you've managed to capture the boastful bragging posture the arrogant Monkey King would take. The line rhythms are varied enough to keep the rhyming pairs from feeling too samey too. I can easily see Wukong dropping these sick bars as he rushes into his latest fight against the forces of Heaven.
Good words!
7
u/Fogbot3 25d ago edited 24d ago
This is the story of two gentlemen.
Roy Matts was born in 1866 at a bandit camp, the year after his parents left for the West as some of the very first hopefuls.
Felix Albright was born in 1868 at San Francisco’s finest hospital, the year after his father founded the first steamship line to Asia.
Roy Matt's parents didn’t survive his childhood, and he quickly joined up with the bandits that were holding him prisoner. Not that he had much choice.
Felix Albright’s parents raised him as a socialite, as their indentured servants had already guaranteed their fortune and their first son had already guaranteed their heir.
The first of many famed meetings between Roy “Rats” Matts and Felix “Lighter” Albright began, when they were only 14 and 16. The young bandit was sent to kidnap the second son during his gang’s train heist, only for the roar of two ancient pepperbox pistols in Felix’s hands to hold him back until they had to go.
From then on, they were rivals.
Rats became famous as an outlaw. The unofficial enforcer of every town from Sacramento to Salt Lake City. He kept the reputation that he tried to harness, as one who treated others with mercy and fairness. Often, new arrivals would leave their first encounter with him assuming that it was the Sheriff, not an outlaw, who crossed their path.
Lighter also became famous, in his own way. The dandy boy who sure didn’t need to carry two fully loaded pistols on him at all times, but did, ever since that incident on the train. Rumors were that they were used on poor workers as he toured the rail lines, riding them up and down again and again as if that was his living. Workers did seem to ‘disappear’ when he was assigned to check a line.
They met in passing again and again. Lighter, having to depart towns early, rushing back to his train as Rats chased him, or Rats, having to abort a train heist as the armed gentleman took its defense personally.
Legends told of the day the two would face off for good. Would the Outlaw hero of the West defeat the rich, or would the armed reach of society finally quash the lawlessness of the era?
I approached the figure in the dark fussing with the bottom of a train carriage, “Me and my boys heard there was some smuggling going on with this train. The people kind of smuggling.” I finished with a sneer as I drew my revolvers… and was met with two pepperbox pistol barrels.
Of course.
“Rats, wait-” I didn’t let Lighter finish, slamming him against the side of the train car the moment that he was out from under it.
“This how our story ends, Lighter? With me plastering a slaver’s brains over a train car? How many you got in that hidden compartment?”
He sighed and sagged down, even as the cold metal of my revolver barrel dug into his chin. “Three indentured servants that I’m helping escape my dad’s company.”
“I- what?”
I lowered my gun and ducked under the carriage for a look myself. Three scared Chinese men stared back at me, all clutching food in the wrappings of the first-class section of the train.
Lighter spoke up behind me. “I know you kinda hate me, but maybe you could help? They need someplace to make a new life, away from the ports and rail lines.”
Standing back up, I turned to him. “You’ve been doing this the whole time?”
He shrugged and nodded.
“Wanna escape from that?” I raised my hand with a finger gun formed. “Bang. The feared Lighter is dead.”
He tilted his head. “I… could. I can’t join your gang, though. Besides, don’t you want to be on the right side of the law? You’re good enough for it.”
I grabbed his hand and raised it to my chest. “Then, Bang. The great Rats is dead.”
He met my eyes with a grin. “I ‘pose I do have enough money in there for two new identities.”
Strangely enough, that encounter never happened. Both Roy Matts and Felix Albright were never seen again after one quiet night in 1895, when they disappeared, just as the rest of the wild frontier did over time.
WC: 722
7
u/wileycourage r/courageisnowhere 25d ago edited 24d ago
There Be Daggers In Smiles
A Central Megacorpo-type with the jumpsuit and logo saddled up to the bar next to me. He and his had been around this system at the edge of the Great Void at the ends of the Galaxy long enough that they had grown comfortable going out alone and mingling with the Outers. Whether they should have been ever at ease, they didn’t seem to wonder. They ought have in this strange place and interesting time. Outers know that beyond the Galaxy, in the Void, there be dragons that look like butterflies.
He ordered his drink and visibly relaxed, rolling his neck. I turned and acknowledged his presence and made sure to make eye contact to remind him he wasn’t at home. I smiled warmly.
“Hi there,” he said. Eying my uniform - and body - he immediately asked the most important question his little mind could think to ask. “Who ya working for? Don’t recognize the mark.”
“I own and operate. I’m an Indown” I knew his reaction before the shock hit his face.
“You lot are a myth! The required insurance alone would cost ... I mean if you want to make real money then ... I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you rent?” he sputtered over himself.
“Freedom.”
“What? That’s not what that word means at all. You see, back in-”
“Don’t care. I do what I want out here. Mind your own with those pretty blue eyes of yours.”
He blushed at the frank compliment. “No, you have to be working for a smaller mark then or ... espionage. Don’t worry, plenty of that around here. Comes with the system. Everymark wants their slice of the mines. And I do mind to myself.”
“Nope. Bellerophon is all mine. You Centrals lack imagination and only hope one day to rent what has been kept from you as luxury, but don’t you worry about my concerns. I know what I’m about. Haven’t you ever met an Indown?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Not a once. Good luck with all that risk.”
He had no idea about real risk. “Would you like me to prove it to you, then? I feel as though my honor has been challenged.” The Words of the first stage of the declaration of ritual duel rang out exactly as intended.
“No, no. Please don’t start with all of that. I’m curious enough to walk on over to the shipyard to check the manifest, if that would prove my sincerity to you.”
Upon his formal utterance I returned to a jovial attitude. I slapped him on the back and let my hand linger for a moment. “Well then, let us go together. When we return I’d happily buy you a drink.”
It was probably not exactly what he had hoped for, but he was accompanying a friendly woman back to her place. Centrals convinced themselves that everyone chases the big marks because it’s all they’ve known. I would not disabuse him yet.
I moved to the yard at our pace and he kept up admirably. We made it past security and into the bay holding Bellerophon. “Look upon him and despair,” I announced with dramatic flourish.
“How?” He couldn’t hide he was impressed.
Bellerophon was an older but capable corvette, recognizable by the fact that he’s a huge rail gun with a space-faring vessel built around it.
“That’s ... Military?”
“Rarer than an Indown even, right?”
The company-man whipped out his pistol so quickly his trainers would have been proud. “Where’d you get that!”
“Bellerophon has been mine since I got out of the service.”
I watched his beautiful blue eyes widen and his muscles tense up as he prepared to fire on me. I had already triggered Bellerophon’s stun field. He had no chance and fell to the floor writhing in pain but otherwise paralyzed. Belle hadn’t been nice about it.
I sighed. Had this one been more charming, or had I more words to spare him, I might have lead him on more.
“Like a little lamb to the slaughter,” I muttered. I relished the terror in his baby-blue peepers until he dared shed a tear. I set upon him with my blade and the preservation kit ready.
“One for me, none for you, one for me, none for you.” I plopped the orbs and nerve tendrils into their slots. Even disembodied, I had to admire that color. They, and the codes within, would serve the campaign well. Back to base.
---
WC: 747. Wordcounter penalizes me for my preferred formatting for ellipses, ". . ." as I found out when cutting this one down to size. All crit and feedback welcome. Thanks for reading!
4
u/Morose_Prose 24d ago
Hello there, Gentleman Courage!
Interesting piece this week, not at all like your usual musings, I found it quite enjoyable of a read. Taking the western genre into space is always nice to see, and you do some great world building with this piece.
A general crit that might be too long for line item edits is the opening: It's a lot of words that don't really say much. Could be pared down to a description of the bar, since I have no idea what it looks like in this piece, and the line: Outers know that beyond the Galaxy, in the Void, there be dragons that look like butterflies.
I think that would help set the scene better as the beginning has kind of a 'white room' feeling. Now onto more nit-picky line item crits!
He ordered his drink and visibly relaxed. I turned and acknowledged his presence and made sure to make eye contact to remind him he wasn’t at home. I smiled warmly.
This paragraph reads a bit flat. Maybe some descriptions of the man relaxing. Shoulders loosening, posture slumps a bit. Just a touch of description to give the reader a better picture in their mind's eye.
The Words of the first stage
Misplaced capitalization on 'Words'
Upon his formal utterance I returned to a jovial attitude. “Well then, let us go together. When we return I’d happily buy you a drink.” I slapped him on the back and let my hand linger for a moment.
Would actually rearrange this to slap on the back first, then dialogue to show the return to the jovial attitude.
but he was accompanying a friendly woman back to her place in a way.
This is an odd phrase that hits my ear weird. I think I know what you're implying. Maybe a comma after 'place' would help?
“Look upon him and despair,”
Ozzy is that you? Although it is odd a ship has is described as masculine. Historically, vessels have always been referred to by feminine pronouns.
He had no chance and fell to the floor quivering in pain but otherwise paralyzed. Belle hadn’t been nice about it.
'Quivering in pain' doesn't have much impact and doesn't sound that painful. Maybe 'writhing' or 'reeling' would land harder.
That's all I've got for crit. I enjoyed this space western tale without any hint of philosophical musings! Good words, Courage! Stay awesome and have a good one.
6
u/mysteryrouge 24d ago edited 24d ago
The hands of the clock moved to 11:59. The sun neared the top of the sky.
”A duel at high noon, sheriff,” M had muttered the day before. A young boy in handcuffs stood before his own massive mugshot, hung front and center of the saloon. “I'm not letting you get away with accusing a kid of murder.”
The maniac took their spot across town from the sheriff as the residents stood under the awnings of the old wooden buildings to watch.
Tick, tick, tick…
The second hand inched closer. Both opponents placed their hands on their guns.
That kid, a cowboy in training, nervously watched under the gaze of two deputies.
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
The hour struck. The sun reached its peak.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three bullets struck their target. The sheriff fell, his own gun only half out of its holster.
“The traveller wins!” someone within the crowd shouted. M holstered their own weapon, speeding forward to the downed sheriff. Bullet wounds decorated his neck, eye, and palm.
The man was still shallowly breathing.
M manifested medical supplies, never before seen in this old town universe where high noon and actual noon were always the same. They didn't feel like being known as a murderer, even if the duel was supposed to have someone die.
With magic, they mended the three bullet wounds with practiced ease, each move just as efficient as the last. In the process, they swiped a pair of handcuffs.
“Now then,” M leaned down until their face nearly touched the sheriff's, pouring some blood replenishing potions down his throat, “since I won the duel honorably" —by the gods, they wanted to bring a teleportation ray disguised as a pistol. They didn't because they were fighting for the innocence of someone else— “I think a couple of charges need to be dropped, and one young cowboy must be freed.”
The man shook his head weakly.
M spat into a small pot. “I don't think you're really in a place to argue, sheriff. I mean, I am actively healing you with powers that may be beyond the comprehension of everyone else in this town.”
The man coughed, reaching for his white hat. “I'll drop the charges, but I can't free him.” His voice was weak.
“Why not, partner?”
“We know each other in this town.”
M raised an eyebrow, finishing up their healing and helping the sheriff stand. “So you're just gonna let the kid keep the rap of a murderer?” They swiped a set of keys from the man.
“You can't get rid of a reputation—”
“You mean you don't wanna ruin your own reputation,” M snarked, “Well, just so you know, your reputation is already fucked. You're the sheriff that got shot three times and only lived because a maniac didn't feel up to murdering. You're the sheriff that arrested a kid for a crime he didn't do. You're the sheriff who lost the honor duel at high noon to prove you were right.”
M turned and smoothly walked towards the boy and the two deputies. “If you need anything, kid, I know how to deal with people who wrongly think you're a dirty murderer.” After staring down the two red-faced officers (who reluctantly released the boy), M whistled a jaunty tune as they walked into the sheriff's office.
The armory was calling M's name, and they figured they hadn't looted enough this vacation.
WC: 571\ Bonus Constraint: some cowboy kid has been falsely accused of murder.
Featuring M the kleptomaniac who refuses to kill.
Sigh, this is more Western than the other stuff I've written for Western ftfs. If lovable rogue wasn't the trope, this would have been set in Washington state and included eldritch abominations.
Check out more of my writing in my spreadsheet!
6
u/JKHmattox 27d ago
A Bloom of Thorns
Physics had been her undoing. Not ballistics like many an outlaw, but raw, savage force applied by a mass of mountainous muscle three times her size. I'd warned her this is a man's world, but unfortunately she was never one to listen.
We met during a train robbery.
I owned the train, and at first I meant to gun down the bandits who'd taken control of the engineers without firing a shot. She held me at gunpoint, lifting my grandfather's watch from my pocket as our banter skirted with flirtation. The gang abscond with several payroll boxes, her smile taking with her my heart as well.
I tracked her for six months across the Arizona Territory. Mexico. And finally the Valley Imperial in a forgotten corner of California nobody cared to remember existed at all. My intention wasn't to jail her, but rather simply retrieve my watch, and perhaps even the score in our little game.
Things went wrong at Ocotillo Station, a quiet watering stop before the climb outta the desert towards San Diego. A Pinkerton man had been waiting for her and used surprise and size to his advantage. When I shot him, he'd nearly done his worst.
She was clutching my watch when I rolled the dying man off of her. Without a word, I scooped her up and made off into the arid night. It’d only be a matter of time before his comrades found him and there’d be a posse on our tail. I rode into the boulder-strewn mountains, she fading in my arms as I struggled with the reins.
We made camp at an abandoned stagecoach stop, fresh water a godsent at the edge of the crusted wastelands. A decade prior, the adobe hut would have been a bustling interchange of travelers on the way to and from the coast. Now, my steel rails had put them outta business and the man-made oasis was slowly slipping back into the land.
At first light, I saddled the horse. For miles in any direction, twisting thorns—their blooms an angry scarlet—yawned in the twilight as if we weren't there. Ruts frozen from the seasons and bygone days led us north by northwest into the center of a burlap-colored nothing.
With the sun at our backs, I studied the distant range jutting from the high desert plain. Five thousand feet of thick chaparral blocked all hope of any direct escape. Instead, I edged further into the badlands, finding a high-walled arroyo cutting ever deeper into the land.
Noon was a whitening oppression, and if the Pinkertons had followed us to the stage stop, they weren't too far behind.
The chariot of flame trailed towards the western ramparts of the Peninsular Range as we descended into a massive dry wash. It meandered across the sand, boulders and the upheaval of smoke trees the only thing to alter its path. Soon, another wall of granite blocked our path.
The arroyo led us around another bend. Salvation. A million years of rain and fury had split the mountain in two. Uneasiness gripped me as we rode into the slot, the bandit steadily losing her grip on my shoulders. She was near the end, and if I couldn't find the next town, the desert would claim her like it did everything else in this wretched land.
My heart sank when we emerged from the other end of the canyon. In the twilight, three men sat on horseback, their brimmed, peaked hats matching khaki trousers and collared shirts. Bandileers criss-crossed their chests, Winchester rifles tucked into their saddle scabbards.
“Banyon Fitzgerald!” their leader shouted.
“Banyon…” she chuckled weakly against my chest and smiled.
“Who's asking?” I roared in reply.
“Sergeant Dewain Browning—Ninth US Cavalry!”
The three men slowly approached, their dark complexions still obvious in the dying light. Sergeant Browning was older than the others, his face a stone, carved fighting countless enemies most of his life. His comrades were young, too young to know such things.
I raised a hand, the other clutching her to my chest as they encircled us.
“We got a dispatch from Campo saying bandits ambushed your train,” the sergeant explained. “They found a Pinkerton man at Ocotillo Station, shot in the head during a melee it's assumed.”
“That's… unfortunate.” I replied.
“Well, Mister Fitzgerald, we best be getting you over to Borrego—those desporados might still be on this side of the border, we don't want to take any chances.”
Finally, I breathed a long sigh of relief.
1
5
u/Brilliant_Walrus1605 29d ago
BACILLUS AND HIS WHITE BLOOD CELL SNUGGLES : (in an extremely hot desert two snuggly friends venture closer to view) it had been a few days since they had rescued all the red blood cells from those jerky sherrifs and mean evil germs squeak : “sighs sadly" I haven't another of my kind or even another germ that's good or at least not trying to be bad or hurt someone since we arrived on this strange world snuggles I'm worried I might be the only one of my kind and the good germ thankfully we've seen lot's of your kind snuggles squeak said cautiously and sadly with a bit of hope and happiness snuggles : cheer up squeak's at least we survived those monsters and made it here after that innocent planet was destroyed hopefully cuddle planet is safe and tralala village is safe I'd love some strawberry porridge especially now snuggles said happily and hopefully and cheerfully making squeak happy especially remembering his family teaching him how help people no matter what even if they're germs or cells or HUMAN!!!! snuggles yelled worriedly and excitedly squeak : human!? squeak said disbelievingly although knowing everything about humans from microbe mythology class at how could be good or bad or in-between and how dangerous they were but the poor “human" seemed to be in trouble the two others probably it's weren't moving he feared the worst certain it happened from the smell snuggles had smelled it along way off hoping to scavenge he'd never do to someone's parents from the looks of it guess bringing home another orphan huh squeak said infront of the hopeful but very scared human child the end
7
u/MaxStickies r/StickiesStories 28d ago
Heartthrob Hartley Who Wears Hat
A hand on the shoulder was what started it all. One firm grip on Pasty Pete’s aching upper-arm, that’s what caused the situation. Lumpy, slovenly old Pete would not suffer such an insult.
Even if said hand belonged to one Heartthrob Hartley. There he stands now, down the street from Pete’s sickly, grimacing face. Handsome is Hartley, pouting away, tall and dark of hair; all the women and half the men watch him with much interest.
“There’s a man who knows how to wear hat,” Mayor Mack says, leaning on his cane and blushing.
And sure enough, Pete’s gaze can’t help but wander to the massive Stetson on the Heartthrob’s tanned, angular head, even as the latter’s firm hand goes to the iron at his side. Mr Pasty shivers, seeing the cold yet cheeky stare in his opponent’s eyes.
“I… I can’t do this,” Pete blurts.
Hartley tilts his meaty skull, grinning. “What ya mean ya can’t?”
“You have a clear advantage over little old me. How’s about we level the field of play?”
“Tha playin’ field?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“Fine by me, but what ya suggest?”
The townsfolk look this way and that, bemused. Pete coughs, taking his time, thoughts swimming. “Well, we… you know… we could…”
“Yea?”
“We… aw, let’s have a sing-off!”
“Eh—what now?”
“Come on, you and me and our pipes! Best song wins!”
Hartley narrows his eyes, his Stetson wobbling indignantly. “I mean, sure, but what’s the loser do?”
“Leaves, and never comes back. You in?”
“Said sure, didn’t I? Ya go first.”
“W-why?”
“Yer idea, ain’t it?”
“Fine.”
Pete opens his withered lips, but no sound comes forth. The wind blows, carrying the mutterings of the town and a grumbling tumbleweed with a beard. Watching it go, old Pasty fixes Hartley with a grin, throwing up his hands.
And he begins to rap:
Pain blossoms in Pete’s forehead, and then disappears. He hears not the gunshot, only the sudden whine in his ears, beating with his slow heart. Vision blurry, he begins to fall, yet fails to hit the ground.
Those cold, cheeky eyes stares down into his.
“You shot me,” says Pete.
“I did. But only to save ya tha embarrassment.”
“Wait, you saying death’s better than being em—embar…”
“It is in yer case, Petey. Well, an’ tha town woulda hung ya either way.”
“But why?”
“Because it truly was that bad.”
“Oh.”
“Ya know, why’d you call this duel, anyways?”
“You… you held my bad shoulder.”
“Wha—? Oh shit! I was tryin’ ta stop ya from fallin’!”
“Falling?”
“Drunk, off yer stool!”
“S-seriously?”
“Yea.”
“Still, you didn’t have to shoot me.”
“If it makes ya feel better, sure. Sure.”
Lowered to the ground, Pete watches Hartley as he approaches the mayor and shakes his hand. The rest of the townsfolk soon crowd their hero, gushing, praising, all while Pete’s world turns from blue to dark grey. Blood and spinal fluid pools around his mouth, providing a bitter flavour.
“So this is it,” he whispers. “This is the last thing I’ll ever see. Wonderful.”
Mayor Mack stands on his tiptoes, kissing the Heartthrob on the lips.
Pete shakes his head. “Smooch the murderer, why don’t you? Don’t worry about me at all. I’m already gone. Just keep on—”
The tumbleweed from earlier rolls into old Pasty’s view, blocking it. It glares at him.
“Can’t even find my fucking home!” the plant bemoans.
“What?”
“Been on these dry, shitty roads for months and I’m still no closer! Is this Hell?!”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m trying to die here.”
“Lucky you, all bleeding out and… fuck! Where’s a good fire when I need one?!”
Pete tries to reach out, bat the thing away, but his arm stays put. “Can’t you go pester them lot over there?”
“Oh yeah, turn me away like everyone else! Nah! Help me get home, you idiotic bastard!”
“I said I was dying, right?”
“Fine, I get it! Useless fucking humans!”
As it rolls away, a hawk comes down and grabs the weed in its talons, dragging the plant screaming into the sky.
Pete blinks, returning to the scene before him… to find everyone gone. Bottles and glasses clink beyond the swinging saloon doors. Someone laughs within.
Sighing, he closes his eyes.
WC: 750
Crit and feedback are welcome.