Day 298 – Take One – Short Story

He stares towards the flames, as they dance in the breeze, slowly, he reaches forward with his frost bitten hands and holds them shakily over the licking flames, as they sear his frozen flesh, he twists his lip, biting down on the bottom, he feels the warmth of the blood rush from it, and then.

“Cold, isn’t it?” A voice says from the darkness, the man stays huddled over the fire, allowing only his eyes to scan the surrounding area.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

The voice laughs, “If I was trying to be funny, I’d make some smart-arsed comment like, aren’t you hot in all those clothes. I’d says I was being, more, pointing out the obvious.”

“What do you want?”

“A warm spot to sit, and some company, do you mind?”

“Do I have a choice?”

A large, hill of a man steps out from the darkness, his beard flows down to, past his chest, his hair, flows longer, his skin, dry, aged, from years in the sun, his eyes, dig like daggers into his soul, his left hand grips a pistol, aimed at the man in front of the fire. “Not really.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t hard, you city folk don’t know how to cover your tracks, and the fire, well, that was you’re biggest mistake.”


The man laughs, “There’s plenty of other ways to stay warm out here, like I said, city folk.”

“So, want are you going to do?”

“Take you in, collect the reward, move on to the next fucktard who thinks he’s above the law.”


He laughs again, “Ain’t my place to care son, I don’t make the decisions, I just follow the job, always have, always will.”

“Just hear me out, let me explain what happened, once you…”

He raises the pistol, “Ain’t my place son, don’t make me repeat myself, you’re dead or alive, don’t make me end you out here, you want a chance to fight, do it in the law room, not out here, ’cause, out here, you’re coyote food if you try.”

“Shit Parsons, haven’t you ever questioned this shit, ever? Haven’t you given someone a chance, I’M FUCKING INNOCENT! DON’T SEND ME BACK! PLEASE!”

A shot rips through his shoulder,s ending him backwards, crashing to the ground, screaming in pain, Parsons stands above him, and spits a wad of saliva onto his face. “I said, shut the fuck up boy, I don’t need to question what I do, you raped that poor girl, then beat her within in an inch of her life, three weeks she held on, THREE FUCKING WEEKS!” He growls, digging a boot down, into his chest. “You don’t deserve anything but the chance to face her family, yours, and pay for what you did, dying out here, it’s too good for a piece of shit like you. Now, you keep your fucking little mouth shut, or the next one is going to hurt a lot more, and for a lot longer.”


Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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