Oriphiel

I've got another weekly update of The Western! I'm having fun writing it, but I have to admit that it's kind of boring. To spice it up, I've decided to inject music into it, putting a video at the beginning of each entry with a song that I had in mind while writing it (or a song that otherwise fits the story). The veteran Journalists among you already know that this isn't my original idea, as it's a central part of other Journals like "Anteater's Yacht Rock Extravaganza" with his "Captain Koko" stories (which you should check out, as they're hilarious and awesome!). I'll be sticking exclusively to songs that have been mentioned in the entries of this journal. Alright, let's start the show with a song from the last entry...

Western: Part Three



One day, Rachel became bored of simply pointing her revolver at targets. Submitting to Lady Fate’s coaxing, she decided that if she couldn’t ever fire her revolver, she could at least practice quick-drawing with it. She stiffened up, legs apart, hand by the holster, just like the shootists of the saloon did when reenacting a harrowing duel. “A fine stance, little chalk. Just fine,” spoke Lady Fate. Rachel swelled with excitement and pride like never before. She reached for the gun, and soon discovered that she lacked the strength to pull it up and out of the holster; after lifting it about two inches, she let it slip out of her fingers and back into it’s resting place. “Try using a tighter grip,” said Lady Fate, “really squeeze and yank on it. You’ll have it out in no time.”

Rachel collected herself, breathing in deeply. She stood up straight once again, and put her hand by her holster. After a moment of pause, she reached for the revolver with the speed of a demon, grabbed it with all her might, and unceremoniously shot herself in the leg. She had pulled the revolver so that it was angled just enough towards her to hit her. Lady Fate seemed to die of laughter as Rachel fell to the ground, almost too much in pain to feel anything at all. But as her adrenaline faded, she soon felt a horrible dull throbbing throughout her leg, punctuated by a sharp stabbing pain when she tried to move it.

Rachel lay on the outskirts of town for what could have been a minute, an hour, or even a day for all her perception was worth at the time. She was in a numb, dreamlike state, almost as if her body was simply in disbelief of what had just occurred. All she had to focus on, besides her bleeding leg, was the revolver lying beside her. Lady fate was still there, laughing all the while. Occasionally, she would cease her hysterical laughter to add a word or two. “Well, you managed to pull it out, didn't you?” she spoke, before falling into laughter once again. “Oh, don’t worry,” she continued, wiping a tear from her eye, “it’s coming to you, little chalk. Just you wait. You’ll grab life, you’ll just grab it and limp with it all the way to the dime novels.” And the laughter started once more.

Meanwhile, the gunshot had roused the townfolk enough to put them on alert, and every parent instinctively sought out their children. Of course, Rachel’s parents could not find her, as she was in her current predicament. They, with the help of the usual posse of concerned parents, eventually found her and brought her to the town doctor. Or rather, they tried to bring her to the doctor, but seeing as he was in the saloon with a fixing to sink or swim in a bottle of whiskey, they had to make do with his assistant.

Luckily, the assistant was no slouch. She was new to the town, one of many types of travelers that drift in from time to time. There were the usual guns for hire, almost exclusively lay-offs from the coach and railroad security business, as well as the young runaways, who were inexperienced yet eager for any work. The doctor’s assistant was of another sort, one of many women who had acquired a higher education, only to find that it was nearly impossible to find a decent career beyond menial labor. Not content to live off of their family’s means, and not quite ready for marriage, these women searched for professional work in vain. Most ended up sharing the same fate as the doctor's assistant, which is to say as an assistant. But here in a small country-town she could do what no city nurse would be allowed to; practice surgery, her specialty.

Rolling up the sleeves of her surgeon-cut dress shirt, the doctor’s assistant worked tirelessly on her task. Lady Fate sat beside Rachel in a rocking chair, holding her hand and smoking a cigarillo, giving sincere words of comfort, though she did occasionally let out a weak laugh, as if remembering an old joke. The surgery went on, and though the assistant did indeed save Rachel’s leg, removing the fragments of bullet and bone that had ricocheted in all directions, it was little consolation to her patient; Rachel’s revolver was gone, confiscated by her parents, taking her dreams along with it.