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fandomweekly2019-01-14 08:00 pm
samuraiter) wrote in fandomweekly2019-01-14 08:00 pm
Entry tags:
[#002] Cheroot (Longarm)
Theme Prompt: # 002 – Heartbreak
Title: Cheroot
Fandom: Longarm
Rating / Warnings: PG-13 – No warnings apply.
Bonus: Half Pint Edition – Yes
Word Count: 370
Summary: Longarm has smoked his last cheroot.
Longarm emerged from the river, spluttering, water dripping from both his mustache and the ruins of his hat. He was good and mad, but not as mad as he could have been. After all, he might have gone into the drink, but the outlaw he had been pursuing had gone into the sweet hereafter.
"And a good thing, too," Long said, removing a still-flopping fish from one of his coat pockets, "because that one was a backshooting owlhoot sumbitch." He sighed. It had not been a good day, and he could think of only one thing that might make it all right. ... Make that two things, if he counted the young lady whose eye he caught back in town, but, out there in the wilderness by himself, he could only count on one friend that was neither a horse nor a gun.
"They'd better not've gotten wet," he grumbled, rummaging through all of his different pockets. "There'll be Hell to pay if they've gotten wet." Minutes passed as he fruitlessly searched himself, and his face turned white when he realized that the object of his search might not be on his person at all.
"Son of a bitch," Long said, sitting down on a broad rock on the riverbank, crestfallen. "Three miles back to town. On foot. And not a single cheroot to smoke." He felt like he had lost his best friend. In a way, perhaps, he had. Women? They came and went. He loved them like no other, but they never did stick around. But his smoke? That was always there, surrounding him like a halo, putting his mind at ease and reminding him that he was charge.
And he had not a single cheroot to his name to put that halo back in place.
"Goddamn it." He rose shakily to his foot, setting his sad joke of a hat low on his brow and pulling his duster around himself as he began the long walk back to town, pausing only to make certain that he had two nickels to rub together to get himself good and restocked at the local general store.
... after he got back to town, three damned miles away.
END.
Title: Cheroot
Fandom: Longarm
Rating / Warnings: PG-13 – No warnings apply.
Bonus: Half Pint Edition – Yes
Word Count: 370
Summary: Longarm has smoked his last cheroot.
Longarm emerged from the river, spluttering, water dripping from both his mustache and the ruins of his hat. He was good and mad, but not as mad as he could have been. After all, he might have gone into the drink, but the outlaw he had been pursuing had gone into the sweet hereafter.
"And a good thing, too," Long said, removing a still-flopping fish from one of his coat pockets, "because that one was a backshooting owlhoot sumbitch." He sighed. It had not been a good day, and he could think of only one thing that might make it all right. ... Make that two things, if he counted the young lady whose eye he caught back in town, but, out there in the wilderness by himself, he could only count on one friend that was neither a horse nor a gun.
"They'd better not've gotten wet," he grumbled, rummaging through all of his different pockets. "There'll be Hell to pay if they've gotten wet." Minutes passed as he fruitlessly searched himself, and his face turned white when he realized that the object of his search might not be on his person at all.
"Son of a bitch," Long said, sitting down on a broad rock on the riverbank, crestfallen. "Three miles back to town. On foot. And not a single cheroot to smoke." He felt like he had lost his best friend. In a way, perhaps, he had. Women? They came and went. He loved them like no other, but they never did stick around. But his smoke? That was always there, surrounding him like a halo, putting his mind at ease and reminding him that he was charge.
And he had not a single cheroot to his name to put that halo back in place.
"Goddamn it." He rose shakily to his foot, setting his sad joke of a hat low on his brow and pulling his duster around himself as he began the long walk back to town, pausing only to make certain that he had two nickels to rub together to get himself good and restocked at the local general store.
... after he got back to town, three damned miles away.
END.