Um... yeah. I originally started writing this story for the "American Old West" Fortnightly Writing Contest, but I didn't finish by the deadline.
I thought writing a story as if it were a transcript of an IF game would be an interesting stylistic exercise, and it was! It was also a lot of fun. I thought some people here might enjoy reading the result, so here it is:
"West Quest"
You are standing on a bustling railroad station. There are trains boarding
for EAST, WEST, and SOUTH. What do you do?
GO WEST.
You board the train heading WEST and grab a seat in the dining car.
The gleaming buildings and cobblestone roads out your window are quickly replaced
by the blur of foliage and twinkling rivers. The next time you look up from
your paper, the view outside is nothing but a flat expanse of sun-scorched dirt
reaching towards distant mountains squatting on the horizon. You SLEEP, and
by the time you wake in the morning, you have arrived in DEAD BUZZARD GULCH.
You step off of the train into the STATION, carrying your SUITCASE with you.
LOOK.
The STATION is really run-down. Boards are missing from the bone-white
wooden floor in several places. Shafts of noonday sunlight pierce the porous roof,
lighting cobwebs with a golden glow. A tumbleweed bounces lazily past.
The TICKET MASTER squats in his small wooden booth. A STAGECOACH idles near
the tracks, waiting to take visitors into town.
GET TUMBLEWEED.
You are too slow.
USE STAGECOACH.
You step into the STAGECOACH and hand the grizzled old driver a DOLLAR.
He tips his hat and cracks a ratty whip, startling the pale, sickly horses
into motion. They plod along the dusty path to town at a slow but steady pace.
The driver drops you off on MAIN STREET and the rattling STAGECOACH continues
on to the BANK.
LOOK.
DEAD BUZZARD GULCH is a tiny frontier town with only the barest semblance
of civilization. The ramshackle wooden buildings seem to appear and vanish
in the ever-swirling dust. The bare, unpainted wood reflects the omnipresent
sun in knife-like shards of bleached brilliance. MIDTOWN is a GENERAL STORE,
a TAVERN lies UPTOWN, and DOWNTOWN there is an establishment which looks
suspiciously like a WHOREHOUSE.
The HEAT presses down on you like a heavy weight. You had better get inside soon.
GO DOWNTOWN.
The DOWNTOWN section is especially rundown and sordid. Slumped shacks, resisting
gravity by stubbornness alone, lean against a sleeping giant of a building that
dominates the street. What once might have been an upscale saloon is now festooned
with scarlet curtains to lure passersby. The tattered red fabric brushes against
the peeling paint and splintered wood like outstretched arms, beckoning damned souls.
A man was just recently ejected from the establishment via a window. He lies in the
street, surrounded by glass shards and loose planks of wood.
TALK TO MAN.
"Four finger... I'll show you a finger! How'm I s'posed to test the merchandise
without touchin'? I'll show that no-good..." He mutters deliriously before passing out.
GET WOOD.
You'll have to enter the WHOREHOUSE first.
ENTER WHOREHOUSE.
You climb the rickety steps and stand in front of the saloon-style doors. Rowdy music
and raucous laughter wafts out to you from the broken window. Below the window hangs
a sign: "Sumptuously satiated carnal desires - INQUIRE WITHIN." You step towards the
door, when suddenly you notice a scorpion blocking your path.
EAT SCORPION.
Tangy and sweet, with a somewhat bitter aftertaste. That bitter taste comes from the
deadly, deadly poison in the scorpion's tail you just chewed. You choke and die.
RESET.
You step towards the door, when suddenly
STEP ON SCORPION.
You squash the scorpion beneath the thick heel of your leather boot. Its ugly guts
squirt out in a deeply satisfying manner.
ENTER WHOREHOUSE.
You push the door open and walk into the house of ill repute. All around you are
signs of debauchery: broken bottles, women's undergarments hanging from banisters
and rafters, a thick haze of smoke tinged with the unmistakable smell of that Oriental
scourge - opium. Revelers and bums sway about like sailors on a tilting vessel,
wrapping arms and tongues around buxom young women with sunken eyes. From somewhere
beyond the writhing sea of bodies, a voice calls out to you - softly at first, then
loud enough to overcome the pianist's drunken quarrel with his keys.
"Is it? It can't be! You!"
Your eyes are drawn to the voice like moths to a cliche. A brunette, with eyes of
green fire, bounds towards you, shoving couples aside in her haste.
"Desiree?" You murmur, as if speaking a thought aloud.
Her beauteous form is suddenly eclipsed by what appears to be a wild boar stuffed in
a corset. On closer inspection, you realize it is actually a woman.
"Yappin' costs money too, Sonny." She says in her genteel Southern drawl. Her fat face
glistening with sweat reminds you of a honey-baked ham with lipstick on it. From the
subtle social cues she's sending you with her outstretched palm, you gather she is the
Madam of this establishment.
PUNCH MADAM.
You sock the old bat right in her stupid face. Stepping over her unconscious body,
you quip:
"I'm never one to mince words, when my fists can do the mincing."
Desiree pushes past the last line of "customers," wrapping her arms around you and burying
her face in your shoulder. She smells faintly of lavender.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She whispers. "I didn't want to leave you, it's just..."
She slowly raises her head to look at you, searching your eyes to gauge your reaction.
"You got so erratic. I didn't know what to do. I was scared."
She peels herself off and slumps onto a couch. Her eyes gaze off into the distance -
into your shared past.
"I remember when you started to take things from my room. Little things. Odd things.
I didn't mind at first... they weren't valuable. But you didn't stop."
Her fingers begin to rub against one another. She looks down at them absently.
"I'd put away your coat and find the pockets bulging with trinkets and garbage. Clothespins,
needles... bits of chewed candy. Daguerreotypes of people we'd never met."
She sat up straighter, resting her hands in her lap. This time, when she spoke, her voice
trembled slightly.
"What could you possibly USE that junk for?"
Her eyes dart towards yours, but only for an instant.
"I... I began to think you were mad. But that was only the beginning. Everywhere you went,
you'd pick up anthing that wasn't nailed down. Whenever my back was turned, I'd hear
something else go in your pocket, or your suitcase or... I don't know where you could be
keeping it all!"
She presses a hand to her temple.
"And you started drawing maps - not just of faraway places, but the route to the store,
to the pond, to the chemist. And then I'd find you, wandering, striking up conversations
with every person you passed, grilling them for information about the random items you'd
picked up! As if everything were connected, as if it all fit together - like pieces of a...
of a..."
She stops and looks up at you, eyes glistening.
SIT ON COUCH.
You sit down next to her. She rests her hand on yours.
"I just couldn't take it anymore. I wasn't strong enough. I should have stayed... I wish
I'd stayed." Once more, her gaze turns away from you. "But I just couldn't face it. So instead,
I ran away. I came here." She reaches into her bustier and pulls out a tattered old piece of
paper. She stares at the faded ink with naked disdain. "Golden opportunities..." Her voice
descends into a growl, which twists into a writhing chain of colorful obscenities. She shreds
the paper with frenzied hands and lets the pieces drop to the floor.
GET PAPER.
Seriously?
"It was all a mistake. A horrible, ghastly mistake." Desiree moans, plunging her head into
her hands. "There's no gold. No work. Nothing but dust and drunks and..." Her voice withers
away. When she turns to you again, her face is wet.
WIPE TEARS.
You cradle her head in your hands and gently wipe the tears from her eyes.
"There's... there's something I need to confess." She pauses. "When I got to this town, and
my money ran out, a man... offered to help me. A man named Horn. But he just bought me these
clothes and dragged me to this place, and... and I'm no longer a virtuous woman."
"I have a confession," You say, drawing her close, "I don't give a"
A gunshot cuts your sentence short. You look towards the door, and see a man with a gun and
a tin badge silhouetted in the doorframe. A teenage girl in too much makeup cowers behind him.
She must have run off to get help when you punched out the madam.
"If there's one thing I can't abide, it's a man who mishandles a woman." He says, lowering
his pistol and sauntering into the room.
"That's him, Horn. Right there on that couch, that's" the girl with him starts to say, before
he slaps her across the face.
"Don't interrupt." He slowly crosses the room and looks you square in the eye. "You drunk or
just stupid, boy?"
SHOOT HORN.
Your gun isn't even unpacked, let alone at the ready.
OPEN SUITCASE.
Your suitcase contains:
1 bottle of Rotgut-brand whiskey
2 tarnished silver keys
1 wad of chewed gum
19 dollars
1 loaded gun (with 6 bullets in the chamber)
GET GUN AND SHOOT HORN.
Horn presses the barrel of his pistol against your skull and cocks the hammer.
"I guess you ain't sauced or stupid. You're just plum crazy. If you want a shoot-out, I'd be
happy to oblige. But bring it outside. A man can't concentrate amidst all this sin
and corruption."
With his gun so close to your face, you can see that the pinky finger is missing from his
right hand.
Desiree squeezes your arm. "What are you gonna do? Stay or go?"
GO.
You snap your suitcase shut and lay it on the floor, then adjust your collar and stand
straight up. You secure your gun between your belt and your pants. As you start to follow
Horn out of the room, you hear Desiree whistling a song she used to sing when you were together.
"Cut that out!" Horn barks, whirling to face her. "I told you I never wanted to hear that
song again!"
She lets the melody die on her lips, then turns her jade green eyes to you.
"Kill him for me."
MAIN STREET seems emptier now. Even the wind has died down. The sun glares at you, flattening
everything beneath a shimmering ocean of heat.
"Anytime, varmint." Horn shouts from up the street.
Time seems to stop. A passing tumbleweed is the only sign of motion.
GET TUMBLEWEED.
Not now.
WHISTLE.
You lick your parched lips and whistle Desiree's tune. It bounces off the buildings like a
coyote's howl in a canyon. Horn's hand begins to tremble.
SHOOT.
You draw the gun and fire it with lightning quickness. Horn, unnerved by your whistling,
fails to react in time.
You miss!
Horn draws his gun, faster than a striking rattlesnake. He fires.
You are hit in the LEFT LEG.
SHOOT.
You fire again. Horn is hit in his RIGHT ARM. He drops his gun. He makes a motion as if to
plead with you.
SHOOT.
You shoot Horn in his HEAD, killing him instantly. He crumples to the ground and remains there.
Desiree rushes to your side. She drops your SUITCASE and wraps her arms around you desperately,
as if trying to hold you together. You wince as her weight presses on your LEFT LEG. Looking
down, she sees your wound and tears a scrap from the hem of her dress to bind it.
A loud thump from behind causes you to whirl around, gun in hand, only to find the
whorehouse madam tied up and lying in the dirt. A brawny redhead at the top of the steps crosses
her arms over her considerable chest.
"The Kitty Klub is under new management," she says, "thanks to you."
"And it looks like Horn will no longer have use for his horse," Desiree smiles, pointing at a
coal-black mare tied to a nearby post.
GET HORSE.
You unhitch the horse from its post and hop on. Holding the reins in one hand, you offer the other
to Desiree. She slides her boot into the stirrup and swings her body up onto the horse. The redhead
calls out to you as Desiree's arms encircle your waist.
"Where will you go, stranger? Copperopolis up NORTH? Grande Tequila down SOUTH? Or will you just
wander the untamed territories out WEST?"
GO WEST.
You get a tight grip on the reins and dig your boots into the horse's belly. It trots up the street,
slowly at first, until you goad it into a gallop with a hearty "Yah! YAH!"
Its hooves kick up a billowing plume of dust as you ride WEST into the SETTING SUN.
I thought writing a story as if it were a transcript of an IF game would be an interesting stylistic exercise, and it was! It was also a lot of fun. I thought some people here might enjoy reading the result, so here it is:
"West Quest"
You are standing on a bustling railroad station. There are trains boarding
for EAST, WEST, and SOUTH. What do you do?
GO WEST.
You board the train heading WEST and grab a seat in the dining car.
The gleaming buildings and cobblestone roads out your window are quickly replaced
by the blur of foliage and twinkling rivers. The next time you look up from
your paper, the view outside is nothing but a flat expanse of sun-scorched dirt
reaching towards distant mountains squatting on the horizon. You SLEEP, and
by the time you wake in the morning, you have arrived in DEAD BUZZARD GULCH.
You step off of the train into the STATION, carrying your SUITCASE with you.
LOOK.
The STATION is really run-down. Boards are missing from the bone-white
wooden floor in several places. Shafts of noonday sunlight pierce the porous roof,
lighting cobwebs with a golden glow. A tumbleweed bounces lazily past.
The TICKET MASTER squats in his small wooden booth. A STAGECOACH idles near
the tracks, waiting to take visitors into town.
GET TUMBLEWEED.
You are too slow.
USE STAGECOACH.
You step into the STAGECOACH and hand the grizzled old driver a DOLLAR.
He tips his hat and cracks a ratty whip, startling the pale, sickly horses
into motion. They plod along the dusty path to town at a slow but steady pace.
The driver drops you off on MAIN STREET and the rattling STAGECOACH continues
on to the BANK.
LOOK.
DEAD BUZZARD GULCH is a tiny frontier town with only the barest semblance
of civilization. The ramshackle wooden buildings seem to appear and vanish
in the ever-swirling dust. The bare, unpainted wood reflects the omnipresent
sun in knife-like shards of bleached brilliance. MIDTOWN is a GENERAL STORE,
a TAVERN lies UPTOWN, and DOWNTOWN there is an establishment which looks
suspiciously like a WHOREHOUSE.
The HEAT presses down on you like a heavy weight. You had better get inside soon.
GO DOWNTOWN.
The DOWNTOWN section is especially rundown and sordid. Slumped shacks, resisting
gravity by stubbornness alone, lean against a sleeping giant of a building that
dominates the street. What once might have been an upscale saloon is now festooned
with scarlet curtains to lure passersby. The tattered red fabric brushes against
the peeling paint and splintered wood like outstretched arms, beckoning damned souls.
A man was just recently ejected from the establishment via a window. He lies in the
street, surrounded by glass shards and loose planks of wood.
TALK TO MAN.
"Four finger... I'll show you a finger! How'm I s'posed to test the merchandise
without touchin'? I'll show that no-good..." He mutters deliriously before passing out.
GET WOOD.
You'll have to enter the WHOREHOUSE first.
ENTER WHOREHOUSE.
You climb the rickety steps and stand in front of the saloon-style doors. Rowdy music
and raucous laughter wafts out to you from the broken window. Below the window hangs
a sign: "Sumptuously satiated carnal desires - INQUIRE WITHIN." You step towards the
door, when suddenly you notice a scorpion blocking your path.
EAT SCORPION.
Tangy and sweet, with a somewhat bitter aftertaste. That bitter taste comes from the
deadly, deadly poison in the scorpion's tail you just chewed. You choke and die.
RESET.
You step towards the door, when suddenly
STEP ON SCORPION.
You squash the scorpion beneath the thick heel of your leather boot. Its ugly guts
squirt out in a deeply satisfying manner.
ENTER WHOREHOUSE.
You push the door open and walk into the house of ill repute. All around you are
signs of debauchery: broken bottles, women's undergarments hanging from banisters
and rafters, a thick haze of smoke tinged with the unmistakable smell of that Oriental
scourge - opium. Revelers and bums sway about like sailors on a tilting vessel,
wrapping arms and tongues around buxom young women with sunken eyes. From somewhere
beyond the writhing sea of bodies, a voice calls out to you - softly at first, then
loud enough to overcome the pianist's drunken quarrel with his keys.
"Is it? It can't be! You!"
Your eyes are drawn to the voice like moths to a cliche. A brunette, with eyes of
green fire, bounds towards you, shoving couples aside in her haste.
"Desiree?" You murmur, as if speaking a thought aloud.
Her beauteous form is suddenly eclipsed by what appears to be a wild boar stuffed in
a corset. On closer inspection, you realize it is actually a woman.
"Yappin' costs money too, Sonny." She says in her genteel Southern drawl. Her fat face
glistening with sweat reminds you of a honey-baked ham with lipstick on it. From the
subtle social cues she's sending you with her outstretched palm, you gather she is the
Madam of this establishment.
PUNCH MADAM.
You sock the old bat right in her stupid face. Stepping over her unconscious body,
you quip:
"I'm never one to mince words, when my fists can do the mincing."
Desiree pushes past the last line of "customers," wrapping her arms around you and burying
her face in your shoulder. She smells faintly of lavender.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She whispers. "I didn't want to leave you, it's just..."
She slowly raises her head to look at you, searching your eyes to gauge your reaction.
"You got so erratic. I didn't know what to do. I was scared."
She peels herself off and slumps onto a couch. Her eyes gaze off into the distance -
into your shared past.
"I remember when you started to take things from my room. Little things. Odd things.
I didn't mind at first... they weren't valuable. But you didn't stop."
Her fingers begin to rub against one another. She looks down at them absently.
"I'd put away your coat and find the pockets bulging with trinkets and garbage. Clothespins,
needles... bits of chewed candy. Daguerreotypes of people we'd never met."
She sat up straighter, resting her hands in her lap. This time, when she spoke, her voice
trembled slightly.
"What could you possibly USE that junk for?"
Her eyes dart towards yours, but only for an instant.
"I... I began to think you were mad. But that was only the beginning. Everywhere you went,
you'd pick up anthing that wasn't nailed down. Whenever my back was turned, I'd hear
something else go in your pocket, or your suitcase or... I don't know where you could be
keeping it all!"
She presses a hand to her temple.
"And you started drawing maps - not just of faraway places, but the route to the store,
to the pond, to the chemist. And then I'd find you, wandering, striking up conversations
with every person you passed, grilling them for information about the random items you'd
picked up! As if everything were connected, as if it all fit together - like pieces of a...
of a..."
She stops and looks up at you, eyes glistening.
SIT ON COUCH.
You sit down next to her. She rests her hand on yours.
"I just couldn't take it anymore. I wasn't strong enough. I should have stayed... I wish
I'd stayed." Once more, her gaze turns away from you. "But I just couldn't face it. So instead,
I ran away. I came here." She reaches into her bustier and pulls out a tattered old piece of
paper. She stares at the faded ink with naked disdain. "Golden opportunities..." Her voice
descends into a growl, which twists into a writhing chain of colorful obscenities. She shreds
the paper with frenzied hands and lets the pieces drop to the floor.
GET PAPER.
Seriously?
"It was all a mistake. A horrible, ghastly mistake." Desiree moans, plunging her head into
her hands. "There's no gold. No work. Nothing but dust and drunks and..." Her voice withers
away. When she turns to you again, her face is wet.
WIPE TEARS.
You cradle her head in your hands and gently wipe the tears from her eyes.
"There's... there's something I need to confess." She pauses. "When I got to this town, and
my money ran out, a man... offered to help me. A man named Horn. But he just bought me these
clothes and dragged me to this place, and... and I'm no longer a virtuous woman."
"I have a confession," You say, drawing her close, "I don't give a"
A gunshot cuts your sentence short. You look towards the door, and see a man with a gun and
a tin badge silhouetted in the doorframe. A teenage girl in too much makeup cowers behind him.
She must have run off to get help when you punched out the madam.
"If there's one thing I can't abide, it's a man who mishandles a woman." He says, lowering
his pistol and sauntering into the room.
"That's him, Horn. Right there on that couch, that's" the girl with him starts to say, before
he slaps her across the face.
"Don't interrupt." He slowly crosses the room and looks you square in the eye. "You drunk or
just stupid, boy?"
SHOOT HORN.
Your gun isn't even unpacked, let alone at the ready.
OPEN SUITCASE.
Your suitcase contains:
1 bottle of Rotgut-brand whiskey
2 tarnished silver keys
1 wad of chewed gum
19 dollars
1 loaded gun (with 6 bullets in the chamber)
GET GUN AND SHOOT HORN.
Horn presses the barrel of his pistol against your skull and cocks the hammer.
"I guess you ain't sauced or stupid. You're just plum crazy. If you want a shoot-out, I'd be
happy to oblige. But bring it outside. A man can't concentrate amidst all this sin
and corruption."
With his gun so close to your face, you can see that the pinky finger is missing from his
right hand.
Desiree squeezes your arm. "What are you gonna do? Stay or go?"
GO.
You snap your suitcase shut and lay it on the floor, then adjust your collar and stand
straight up. You secure your gun between your belt and your pants. As you start to follow
Horn out of the room, you hear Desiree whistling a song she used to sing when you were together.
"Cut that out!" Horn barks, whirling to face her. "I told you I never wanted to hear that
song again!"
She lets the melody die on her lips, then turns her jade green eyes to you.
"Kill him for me."
MAIN STREET seems emptier now. Even the wind has died down. The sun glares at you, flattening
everything beneath a shimmering ocean of heat.
"Anytime, varmint." Horn shouts from up the street.
Time seems to stop. A passing tumbleweed is the only sign of motion.
GET TUMBLEWEED.
Not now.
WHISTLE.
You lick your parched lips and whistle Desiree's tune. It bounces off the buildings like a
coyote's howl in a canyon. Horn's hand begins to tremble.
SHOOT.
You draw the gun and fire it with lightning quickness. Horn, unnerved by your whistling,
fails to react in time.
You miss!
Horn draws his gun, faster than a striking rattlesnake. He fires.
You are hit in the LEFT LEG.
SHOOT.
You fire again. Horn is hit in his RIGHT ARM. He drops his gun. He makes a motion as if to
plead with you.
SHOOT.
You shoot Horn in his HEAD, killing him instantly. He crumples to the ground and remains there.
Desiree rushes to your side. She drops your SUITCASE and wraps her arms around you desperately,
as if trying to hold you together. You wince as her weight presses on your LEFT LEG. Looking
down, she sees your wound and tears a scrap from the hem of her dress to bind it.
A loud thump from behind causes you to whirl around, gun in hand, only to find the
whorehouse madam tied up and lying in the dirt. A brawny redhead at the top of the steps crosses
her arms over her considerable chest.
"The Kitty Klub is under new management," she says, "thanks to you."
"And it looks like Horn will no longer have use for his horse," Desiree smiles, pointing at a
coal-black mare tied to a nearby post.
GET HORSE.
You unhitch the horse from its post and hop on. Holding the reins in one hand, you offer the other
to Desiree. She slides her boot into the stirrup and swings her body up onto the horse. The redhead
calls out to you as Desiree's arms encircle your waist.
"Where will you go, stranger? Copperopolis up NORTH? Grande Tequila down SOUTH? Or will you just
wander the untamed territories out WEST?"
GO WEST.
You get a tight grip on the reins and dig your boots into the horse's belly. It trots up the street,
slowly at first, until you goad it into a gallop with a hearty "Yah! YAH!"
Its hooves kick up a billowing plume of dust as you ride WEST into the SETTING SUN.
