Wild West Journal

By: Dawn Mullan

it's March 5th, 1854.

i was riding toward the southwest territory,

Arizona as it was called.

i was headed toward Mexico.

Cannibals had taken over a small town.

it was my duty to help the local people

take back their homes.

in the bright sun of the desert,

the blue sky seemed endless.

my throat was dry and

my trusty steed tired.

as i rode horseback, i had

a confession to make:

i didn't know how to stop them

cannibals.

Archer is my gunfighter name.

More subtle than Jesse James.

More accurate than Billy the Kid.

But my name was not well known.

i survived gun shot wounds and

dancing with left footed Miss Claire.

i've done it all.

as i came into town,

one person met me at the sheriff's office.

he was scrappy but robust.

he shivered with fright.

He told me his name was Warner.

i observed his hand-ringing

while he told me the story

how his whole town was eaten.

i shot him. dead.

maybe he should have

taken the spoon out of

his back pocket.

I mounted my horse

as the sun set, i went east.

i heard Georgia had a sasquatch.

And that's how i saved the

southwest from being

devoured by a cannibal.