The Town of Little Rock

By Paul Lawless

The sun, restlessly, beats down its hot, brutal and cold breath all over the desert, not one spot is being spared in any emotional sense. While a lone man is doing his very best to walk and walk for hour after hour over the lonely desert. 
The desert can feel and sense his desperate tired body wishing to merely stop and simply sit down and just wait for death to claims its prize, once again. 
Ah, but he is made of steel, emotionally and physically. There is a confederate hat covering his short black hair that is covered in old, fresh drops of sweat. 
There is a fairly new scar on his left side of his forehead. He cannot recall how the scar came to be or his name or how he came to be ambling in this desert and or how he is going to escape this unforgiving desert. 
His red boots are pressing hard down on the desert. There is so much, sand inside his boots, now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pale Horse Publications
• Release date: May 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224303335

Paul Lawless

Paul Lawless was born in Liverpool, England in 1958. He spends a lot of time volunteering for charities in Liverpool. He's a lover of animals, reading, writing novels and poems. He's also member of an Unitarian Church in Liverpool which takes up a lot of his time.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE 

The sun, restlessly , beats down its hot, brutal and cold breath all over the desert, not one spot is being spared in any emotional sense. While a lone man is doing his very best to walk and walk for hour after hour over the lonely desert. While his hope is draining him. The desert can feel and sense his desperate tired body wishing to merely stop and simply sit down and just wait for death to claims its prize, once again. Ah, but he is made of steel, emotionally and physically. He is in his early thirties. There is a confederate hat covering his short black hair that is covered in old, fresh drops of sweat. He is not tall or short. He is not thin or fat, but muscular, strong and fit. There is a fairly new scar on his left side of his forehead. He cannot recall how the scar came to be or his name or how he came to be ambling in this desert and or how he is going to escape this unforgiving desert. His red boots are pressing hard down on the desert. While there is so much, sand inside his boots, now. His brown trousers are covered in so many drops of sweat and so is his blue shirt. His lips are so sore and so cracked. As he rolls his tongue out of his mouth once again and there, he rushes his tongue over his lips without any thoughts or emotions. His face is so burnt by the sun’s relentless and restless breathing. His face is so desperately needing a shave. Because his face is so itchy. He longs to soak for hours in a hot, soapy water in a tub, that he can stretch his body fully out. His scar is hurting him slightly now. It is annoying him slightly, but he selects to ignore, because he will only brood on it, tormenting his emotions and his thoughts.  His mouth and throat are so dry and so desperate for the company of water. His stomach longs for the smell and taste of some food. He drank the last few drops of water from the green and blue cantina, many hours ago. He had been carrying. He was still carrying the useless cantina until an hour ago, when in anger, he violently swung and threw away the useless cantina. He giggled when the cantina landed in the desert so forlornly. 

On and on, he staggers. His legs are begging. His mouth cannot recall the taste of water. But he is certain that he can see something moving in the desert. But first he dismisses this as pure imagination like some fairy tale without the once upon time.  So, he stops moving. He can feel his tired and aching body even more. He waits with indifferent patience, and merely breathes while his heart is beating so fast. He watches in masked hope. He pokes his tongue out of his mouth. He runs his tongue over his lips in camouflage hope. He merely ignores the pain this causes. Now, he can see it is black insects that are crawling through the desert so boldly, so confidently and so arrogantly as if nothing can or would dare to touch them. He smiles. He waits. He thinks maybe those black insects are poisonous. He waits. He is so desperate for something to nourish on in the desert instead of being constantly nourish on by the desert. He waits for the black insects to get closer and closer. He rubs his hands together and drops of sweat are cascading down from his fingers onto the desert floor. Until the black insects are so close. He rides in his patience. He slips his tongue back into his mouth. He drops very carefully onto his knees, hoping not to make the insects panic. As the black insects are so very close now. He whispers to his fingers to wait, because his thoughts pining not to scare them too soon, increasing in his emotions but even his emotions are thirty now. But now the black insects are travelling around his still body. He moves his head so slightly and so carefully. He watches them, with calmness and calculation, but not anticipation. He slows down his breathing, but his heart is beating so fast, and his stomach is singing I am so desperate. His mouth can taste them already. But there is so much tiredness wishing to have nothing to do with this action. He disregards the emotions of tiredness as his fingers are driving towards three hundred or more black insects. His ten fingers are landing on a great many of them. He formulates a smile, a smile of cunningness, of savagery, of lust or it is for the love of killing and eating some other living and breathing thing, regardless the one life everything living as. 

The black insects are trying to escape this madness of eating and murdering by running away as fast as their horror and their legs are permitting them to. While some of the black insects are escaping from his ten fingers. This irate him greatly and shame him at the same time. But he manages to prevent any more, black insects from escaping his ten fingers without pity or compassion. So, now he pulls his fingers away from the floor of the desert so carefully. He closes his fingers to prevent those trapped black insects from escaping. He opens his mouth so wide, so ready to eat. He conscientiously drives his two hands towards his waiting mouth. He forces the trapped black insects into his mouth. He keeps them trapped inside his mouth. He can feel the desire to spits them out. But he cannot. So, he chews on them inside his mouth, so, desperately, so assertively until it is time to swallow them down his throat so they can continue their long journey to his stomach. As, the surviving black insects have seemed to have stopped. Now it seems as if the black insects to his mind and his emotions are watching him, while he watches them, pondering if he can trap some more black insect to feed his stomach and his emotions. He watches the black insects trying to conjure up a magical plan to trap some more of them in his savagery. while it seems, the black insects are selecting some members to formulate a jury to render a verdict and now as he licks his lips as the surviving black insects turn away from him and rush as fast as they can away from him, while it seems very much to him, that the black insects have left behind a guilty verdict. He rides his left hand up to his mouth and there he wipes his lips and feels the pain in his lips, before he takes one step forwards and sighs so semi satisfied with life. Oh, away from the shame of murdering.

The sun is still breathing so exhausting hot.  As, he continues and continues on and on through the desert. It has been four, long hours since he participated on the black insects as now his stomach is starting to rumble and rumble while it is reading the menu of pain so slowly and so irritatingly. He ignores this and forces his legs and his tiredness on and on through the never-ending desire and desert.

His body and his fingers and his emotions are sweating so much now. As his stomach is continue reading the menu of pain, but he ignores this and forces and drags one leg forward and then the next leg forward. While, it is becoming too much for him bear much longer. But he hauls himself on and on through the desert while in his drowning tiredness he ponders if he should merely turn around and start walking in another direction, but he dismisses this as nonsense. 

Now, suddenly there is so much pain in his stomach screaming and reading the menu of pain. He falls onto his knees so dramatically, so icily. He tries to fight this action, but he cannot resist. While he throws his hands onto his stomach in such desperation. He commands his mouth to open, regardless of the mouth’s feelings, so he may yell and beg. He can feel and sense the need to place his hands together in the act of praying. But he strenuously rejects this notion. Because he is reasonably certain that he does not have any religious bones in his body or in his emotions. While he can feel and sense his stomach is trying to force out something, so rebelliously. He waits in agonizing pain. While some tears are running down his face. He can feel something is riding up towards his throat as the pain is increasing in tempo. He longs to scream as loudly as he spits and spits something out that is so foul and so smelling out of his throat, until he thinks so emotionally there is no more to come out of his throat. He falls onto his face just trying to breathe without pain, but the pain is still reading the menu of pain while he can sense and feel some more liquid entering his throat, so wickedly. He can feel himself starting to choke. He can feel panic coming for him. He must get the liquid out of his throat, or he will merely die here in this lonely place. So, he spits and spits the liquid out of his throat, so violently. He inspects the liquid in the grey and dull sand. There he recognizes that it was the black insects he had eaten. He presses his knees into his stomach. So, hoping he may find some relief. He merely waits for the pain to finish, its pleasure. He closes his eyes and breathes so very deliberately. While his face and his emotions are covered in many new drops of sweat. He can feel and sense some dizziness coming for him. He tries to battle this, but he is so tired, that he is not certain if he can or indeed if he should. He keeps his eyes closed and waits.

He opens his eyes. He breathes without pain in his stomach. He looks at the spot where he spat out the liquid out of his throat. He realizes that the liquid has merely soaked into the grey and dull sand. He forces himself onto his stomach and battles the remaining feelings of dizziness. The sun is still beating down its annoying hot breathing. He must stand up and continue now, or he will never. He forces his body and his emotions upwards. He manages to stand up after a struggle. He is breathing very fast, and his heart is beating so fast. So, he merely stands still looking ahead as far as he can see, but all he can see is more and more desert. He sighs in such a bitter manner. He starts to force one leg forwards and then he forces the other leg forward.

He can feel and sense the sand inside moving about inside the boots so annoyingly. Because there is so much trapped sand inside his boots now. He can feel some of the sand has infiltrated his socks. This is really starting to agonize his toes. But he continues trying to walk and walk over the desert, but he must stop and sit on the floor of the desert and take his boots off, so gratingly, and to enable him to shake the sand out of his boots. He tries to continue. But he cannot, so he gives in to the sitting down. So, he sighs, so indifferent. He sits down on the floor of the desert. He breathes. He looks up at the sun, in a defiant manner. He grimes. He starts to take his boot of his left foot. But He is spending so much energy that he cannot afford, taking this boot off that it is making him breathes so harshly and sweat so profusely. Finally, he has managed to get the boot off. He looks inside the boot so exhaustedly. He sighs so full of annoyances. There he sees the unlawful sand inside, so he turns the boot upside down and shakes the boot, so exhaustedly, to encourage the sand to leave his boot. He watches the sand falling out of his boot and land on the floor of the desert and soon he cannot distinguish the sand that has been inside his boot from the sand waiting in the desert.

He drags his other boot of his leg and feeds the sand discovered inside boot onto the floor of the desert. He rests on his back merely breathing, until it is time to sit up once again. He takes his socks off, so leisurely. He holds the blue socks in his left hand and shakes the socks up and down to dislodge the sand. He rests the socks inside his trousers pocket and then he inspects the sand in-between his toes. While permitting his tongue to escape his mouth and run around his lips, regardless of the pain this is causing.

He stands up merely breathing as drops of sweat are running down his face and his emotions. He takes his hat off his head with delight. He holds in it in his left hand and rubs his right hand so vigorously through his hair. His hair feels so sweaty. Increasing his wishing for a bath. He puts his hat back onto his head, so filled reluctance. He sighs so softly before he starts walking once more through the desert. While, suddenly he can hear some birds flying in the sky, so, he pokes his head upwards. There, much to his delight, he spies on the red and blue birds flying so freely in the blue sky. The birds are flying as if they are searching for food in the desert, but there is nothing for them to eat in this desert, of loss hope and of loss dreams. He watches them until they disappear inside some large white clouds that are drifting so peacefully, so freely across the sky. Now he continues rambling through the desert with no end in sight. With the plaguing sun, for company.

He is so tired, but he continues and continues and on, until his legs are harrowing and so begging. So, he stops once more. He stands there wishing he could sit down on the floor of the desert for a long time, just resting. As, his mind is starting to imagine crazies' things, but he knows he will never be able to drag himself again up of the floor of the desert if gives to sitting. Then he will merely die in the desert and maybe one day someone riding across the desert will discover his skeleton. While his scar is hurting and bothering him, now. He throws his left hand upwards, until it lands on the scar. He tenderly and gently touches and feels the scar. He keeps his hand on the scar. As, he tries, once more, to recall how he got this scar. It is so puzzling to him and it is becoming an obsession. That he must dislodge for his sanity. He wonders what the scar looks like and how bad it is. He fights these bad feelings before he starts walking once more on and on. While he can hear the birds flying once again. A smile semi pleasure formulates on his face like the telling of a fairy tale. He so turns his head towards the sounds of the birds. There he watches in the birds with curiosity and gladness. Now the birds are reacting as if they have spotted something on the floor of the desert. He allows his tongue to jump out of his mouth and runs and runs it over his lips as the birds are driving downwards towards the floor of the desert. He thinks maybe it is those black insects that the birds are going to feed on, so civilized.

He continues on, walking through the never-ending desert as if it is punishment that he must endure for cruelties he has performed in his past life. But what wickedness would warrant this kind of punishment like victims of cruel prisons.  A life that he cannot recall or remember. He thinks perhaps it would be better if he took his gun out of his holster. So, he can throw the gun away into the desert to lighten his load and his problem. He drops his hand onto the top of the gun. He likes the touching of the metal flesh of the gun against his human flesh.  He ponders why he likes the feelings of his gun before He takes the gun out of the silver and red, with his left hand holster so swiftly. As if he is an expert with a gun. He inspects the gun in his hand as if it is some strange and mysterious thing. As he wonders, ponder how come, he is so good with a gun. He inspects the gun more closely as if this is the first time, he has ever seen the gun. He likes how the gun feels in his hand, if feel so natural. He swirls the gun faster and faster in his hand, until tiredness tells him to stop. So, he drops the gun so skilfully, so hesitantly, into the holster. He continues to rest his hand on top of the gun, until he realizes that he is liking it too much, so he stops, filled with agitation. He wonders once more how he came to be so good with a gun. But this annoys him. So, he dismisses this wondering and pondering or thinking on the gun.  He is certain that he has read about men good with guns in some newspapers or listen to other men talking in saloons about men good with guns. He does not think it was good things what men said about men good with guns. But he rejects this as pure nonsense. So, he concentrates once more on walking and walking through the desert, with his hope fighting an incurable disease.

He is so exhausted that he can barely keep his eyes open, but he cannot stop for it is still too light and the sun is still so powerful. He must wait until it starts getting dark. It must start getting dark soon, he hopes, for he realizes he cannot keep going much longer in this never-ending heat. He inspects his clothing and there he can much sweating covering his clothing, that it makes him smile. 

He is so exhausted now, that he can barely force and drag one leg forward and then the next leg forward in guarded hope, now. He can feel his leg giving away on him. He tries to fight this dangerous action, but he falls onto his knees. He raises his head upwards in such slow action. There he can see it is starting to get dark. He smiles and drops onto his face and waits for sleep to come. As he hopes that least the dreams are peaceful. While he is trying to slow down his breathing as his heart is beating slower.

He can feel the morning sun breathing on his face. He inspects the sand on his clothing. He drags his hands over his clothes brushing the sand off his clothes, so tired. He sits up. He breathes until it is time to stand up. He walks on and on through the desert for hour after hour with his energy being drained and soaked so evilly. But now, He had been walking for twenty minutes and now he is certain he can see something in the desert not too far ahead in the desert. He tries to conjure up what it can be. He dismisses this for it is too boring to concern him, whispers to himself. But nevertheless, he strolls toward the thing, feel so restless.

He can see the outline of the thing resting and sleeping in the desert. It is a wagon; he whispers to himself. He tries not to smile but he cannot resist. He stops moving.  He merely spies on the broken wagon, keeping a safe distance from the wagon as if the wagon can put a curse on him. The wagon has been forced onto its left side so, brutally and so turbulently, that it is resting on its two left wheels, so forlornly. The desert has so coldly and clearly affected them. Because all the wheels are so rotten and so rusted. They could easily fall to bits at any moment. There are three skeletons that where at one time three horses resting in front of the wagon. There skeletons are still attached to the wagon with straps as if the skeletons are just waiting to start pulling the wagon, once more. The bonnet is covered in so much sand. He strolls casually towards the wagon. While he hopes if he can discover anything useful inside the wagon. He stops in front of the wagon because he can see there are three human skeletons resting just by the wagon. He ponders if should merely run away from the wagon. He can feel fear and dread nourishing on him. The skeletons are still wearing clothes much to his shock. But the clothes are so worn and so covered in some sand. One of the skeletons has a blue dress, black boots, and a blue pretty hat that were usually worn by someone in their late thirties. One of the skeletons is engaged with man’s clothing, brown trousers, blue jacket and grey boots and a grey boater hat. The other skeleton is dress in a child’s blue dress and a red hat is covering where head must have been and there are yellow boots on the feet of the skeleton. This truly shocks and scares him. The clothes seen as if they can fall to bit at any moment.

He stops on the edge of the three skeletons. He has no real yearning to come any closer, but he must he fully realizes because there maybe something useful inside the wagon, maybe some food or water.  He breathes so fidgety before he starts moving towards the three skeletons, battling his desire to shake and shiver, until he stops in front of them. He feels some shame for invading the private world of the skeletons' deaths. He notices the female skeleton has three broken and rusting arrows inside it. Before he redirects his eyes onto the male skeleton and there, he sees one broken and rusted arrow. He calculates that man must have been still breathing and bleeding as he drove the wagon into the desert to escape the band of Comanche. He notices that the man had been wearing a holster with red handle navy colt gun resting in it. While in the man’s hand is a rifle. He inspects the girl’s skeleton, and he calculates she could not have been more than twelve with all her life ahead of her, meeting some man and getting married and having children or going to college to become a professional woman like some young women do now. He can feel and sense a lone tear being developed inside his left eye and hoping to have permission to cascade down his face. He throws his hand onto his hat and there, he drags and hauls his hat off his head. He stands there merely squeezing his hat while the lone tear is cascading down his face, so respectfully. He slows down his breathing, while it is slightly dark now and not so hot and sweaty which he is grateful for.

He figures it is best to bury the skeletons before it gets too dark. He looks around for something to use, to dig holes for the three skeletons. Finally, he selects to search inside the wagon. There in front of the white and yellow bonnet he discovers a grey spade. He inspects the spade for its usefulness and its worthiness. He manages to drag the spade out of the wagon. He holds the spade, inspecting it.

He digs and digs at the sand, so fighting exhaustion, but he does not stop until he has dug one hole. He sits down so tired, so covered in more drops of sweat, but he realizes he must continue despite the demanding and commanding tiredness. He forces himself upwards. While his breathing is so shallow and so longing.

He digs and digs until there are two more holes. He breathes so slowly before he moves towards the skeletons. He looks at the three skeletons so searching and so longing to get it over with. He stands over three holes, while he is holding some of the money that he discovered in the man’s skeleton. He feels the money between his fingers pondering if he should keep the money, but he rejects this because it seems so morally wrong. He tosses the money into the hole. He kneels. He looks at the belt.  He moves his hands towards the belt. He takes the belt and holster so carefully off the male’s skeleton. The skeleton gives up the belt so easily. He takes the gun out of the holster.  He ponders perhaps it is violating the gun somehow, but he rejects this notion. There he inspects the gun. He calculates it has a