R.J. Butler
The cowboys arrived during the drought.
They wore boots growing moss and wildflowers.
They carried lassos made of garden hoses and rode their bicycles into the heart of the desert. There, they aimed for the drifting clouds above, roping them from below.
That night, as rain fell over the town, people applauded from porches and laundromats.
By the next morning, the cowboys were gone.
Only puddles remained.
The gunslinger put his revolver in a sack and rented a rowboat.
The lake was flat. It was like a blank piece of paper. He rowed with a seriousness reserved for funerals and card games, every splash sounding like an apology.
The gunslinger admitted to himself that he always wanted to be a seahorse but lacked the correct breathing apparatus. He drifted off into the sunset that holstered the day.
The boat never fired.
It had an alibi.
R.J. Butler
They floated like ideas.
Each one held a tiny reflection of the afternoon. Distorted honesty.
A boy tried to pop one and transformed into a unicorn with the knowledge of flight and how to achieve world peace, whilst the others burst quietly, apologizing for their mere existence.
The sky wiped its mouth dry, and the clouds cried.