Flint rolled straw between his teeth, basking in the dying sun. It rested still on the horizon, a red akin to blood, dim and beautiful through the heat-warped air. His bony hands were raw from the day’s work and covered in dirt, one resting underneath his chin and the other behind him on the warm, worn wood of his porch.
For a time, he did nothing but watch the sun set. He loved sunsets; the brief period in which the sky darkened and the heat of the day began to fade. He loved the way the sun, which cooked his neck and back during the day, shifted from a force of oppression to the last beacon against the night.
Once the last sliver of red fell under the endless desert plain, and the cold began to set in, Flint headed inside. His boots creaked on the porch’s wooden planks, and he instinctively knew which broken boards to step over, every rusty nail, every unrepaired hole, on the way in.
He took one last look at the horizon before opening the door. Stars were already making their appearance, the cloudy streak that was his galaxy hanging over the desert. And he noticed, too, that several yellow lights in a row bobbed up and down as they moved in front of a cliff far to his left. He watched them go for a moment, and then pushed open his back door.
His father lit another lamp around the dinner table, further illuminating his mother, who was already seated. Flint was dressed like they were, with leather jackets and tall, well-worn brown boots, though showing a definite preference towards his father’s attire. Flint hung his hat next to his father’s by their front door and sat down.
The food was simple, dry, and sparse, composed only of the unsold crops they farmed and served in carved, often-broken wooden bowls. They ate in silence for a moment, then:
“I saw the Latton family again,” Flint said.
His father scowled. His mother was silent.
“By the cliffs,” Flint finished.
“They’re some persistent ones, aren’t they?” his father growled. “How close?”
“Not close. I think they were just traveling. I saw about six of ‘em.”
“I swear on all that’s holy, if they come near our-”
“Sodeo, not at the dinner table,” his mom interrupted. “There’s food to eat.”
Sodeo turned to his wife. “Our son needs to know what the Latton family is doing in the world. It’s important business. I mean, hell, the whole farm’s at stake. Everything’s at stake. He has to understand what them coming around here means, and the consequences they’ll need to face if they do.”
Flint’s mother replied with a glare, then promptly returned to her food.
“And now that Flint’s old enough, it's high time for him to get his own gun. Especially if the Latton family’s making moves,” he continued.
“Then do it after dinner,” she finished.
The three returned to eating, but now an exciting thought lingered in Flint’s mind. He was getting his own guns? He kept eating his bland food, but he could hardly focus on it anymore. He wanted dinner to end as soon as possible.
Finally, the moment came, and his father rose from the table. He turned to Flint’s mother.
“Mili, clear the table. I’m taking Flint to the range. Flint, come.”
Flint shot up from his chair and ran to his father’s side. He followed his father through their small house, through a worn wooden door, and down two steps into a well-lit room with a compacted dirt floor. Guns of every shape, size, and utility, all expertly crafted, lined every wall of the room, save for the far wall which had a locked door leading outside. The guns in this room were just about the only things they owned that their family hadn’t sold to survive the latest drought. He had been here before when his father taught him how to use some of these guns, giving him ample training.
Sodeo, far taller than young Flint, didn’t need to reach in order to grab a hold of a pristine, gold-engraved pistol hanging by the ceiling. He brought it down to Flint’s eye level, holding it delicately.
“This was mine when I was your age,” his father explained. “And by the time I was fourteen, I had to defend the farm from seven bandits. Seven. And with this gun, I fought every one of them off. I didn’t suffer a scratch.”
He pushed it into Flint’s hands.
“Its yours now. The Latton family wants our land. If and when the time comes, you’ll have the responsibility of helping fight them off. Even when mom and I are gone. Especially when we’re gone.”
Flint examined the flawless craftsmanship, the way the golden plates encompassed the polished reddish wood and the fine, edged engravings made in the metal. He looked at his father.
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You’re a special boy, Flint. You’re gonna do good in the world.”
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Flint awoke at dawn and walked out to their farm. Though he was used to it, it was an object to be envied: vast, well-kept squares of crops, distinct borders between each type of food. The farm had taken years to develop to its current state, and the sprouts he walked by indicated that their next, biggest harvest was on its way. The farm was the only spot of color for miles, save for the pale farmhouse he lived in and the gravel road that connected them to the town.
He found his father nearby, holding a shovel and a bucket full of various freshly-picked crops.
“Take these to the town,” Sodeo said, holding out the bucket and pointing to several others lying nearby. “While you’re out, you can pay a visit to that man who keeps the desims. Say hi to that desim you’ve been looking at if you’d like. Soon enough, we might be able to take care of ‘im.”
Now with an extra spring in his step, Flint grabbed the buckets, put on his hole-filled shoes, and took to the town.
He walked several miles through the growing heat, unfocused on the redundant desert scenery around him. Over time, sloped roofs and faraway taverns clarified themselves over the horizon, telling him he was close to the town. Finally, he approached a dusty store close to the road, knocked on its door, and set down the crops.
A gray-haired man with an extravagant leather hat yanked open the door, looking down at Flint. He had a piece of straw in his mouth.
“Got the crops?”
“Yes sir,” Flint responded.
“Good,” the old man said, turning inside. “Follow me. And bring those buckets.”
The store was simple, composed of only a few large wood containers full of food, some more so than others. While the outside was dusty, the inside was well-kept.
“You had good timing,” the old man said, grabbing a bucket of grain and dumping it into a machine in the back of the store. “Business’s been booming. Everyone’s on a mad grab for resources.”
Flint carried another bucket of grain to the machine. “Why?” he asked.
“Times are a changin’, son. Word’s out that there are people in the sky roaming around, taking everything they can get. Including this planet. Outlaws of the heavens, folks are calling ‘em.”
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Flint was silent, looking up at the man. Realizing his captive audience, the man elaborated.
“Seen the stars, son?”
“Mhm.”
“There are other people out there. On stars like our sun. A whole group of outlaws who rule the stars are gonna take our home.”
“Why us? Why our home?”
“Who knows? But that’s why everyone wants food, water, and land so bad right now. It’s the end times. Keep an eye out, Flint, you and your family. People are getting desperate.”
Flint didn’t know what to make of this. He was suddenly more aware of the gun holstered by his side.
“Thank you, mister.”
“Sure thing. Take care.”
Flint left the store and, after orienting himself in the town, walked to a barn hidden by other sunbleached roofs. The sounds of animals braying, bleating, beeping, and chirping grew louder as Flint approached the barn. Behind a pen enclosed by shoulder-high wire fence—Flint’s shoulders, at least—was a group of desims clustered close together. Small, fluffy creatures with stretched bodies and long, thin ears, some of the still-sleeping desims huddled together in a ball of pale beige-white fur while the early risers roamed the pen, careful to remain in the shade. The pen where the desims were held was small, a bit too small for the creatures to properly spread out, but Flint was familiar with the feeling. He, like everyone else he knew, lived in places that were just a bit too small, just a bit too dirty.
One of the desims, with an unusually large number of white spots and streaks on its body and face, walked up to Flint from the group in the pen’s center, and Flint recognized her immediately.
This white-headed desim had shown interest in Flint before on previous visits, which had started when Flint had asked his parents to look at the creatures after passing by them on a walk through town. She flicked her ears as she strode up to Flint on six legs, looking at him with large, black eyes through the wire fence. Flint’s expression broke into a smile, and he reached out from a gap in the wire to scratch the desim’s head.
He had already decided that he would name the friendly desim Ghost—her white face and large, black eyes reminded Flint so much of the creatures of myth. In fact, Flint hadn’t been able to help himself from naming her on their very first meeting, despite his parents’ advice not to.
The refrain he had gotten so used to hearing from his parents was that they “couldn’t afford it yet.” That phrase seemed to apply to Ghost more than anything else he asked of his parents, that having another mouth to feed was outside of the realm of possibility at the moment. But with their largest harvest yet just around the corner, and feeling Ghost’s soft white fur in his hand, it was hard for Flint not to get his hopes up that, someday, she could become a part of his small but happy family.
Flint gave the happily chirping creature a final scratch on the head before straightening himself.
“Bye, Ghost. See you soon.”
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Flint was holding a handful of weeds and was walking back to his farmhouse when he heard the first gunshot. It echoed through the arid air, freezing Flint in place. Another shot rang out shortly after, and he sprinted back home through the crops.
In front of his home was the large Latton family of nine, with two elderly parents, five sons and two daughters all in their twenties, all of which with a gleam in their eye and a gun in their hand. Mr. Latton, ahead of the group, was standing in front of Flint’s father, gun smoking. Blood was pooling on the ground beneath Sodeo.
In the span of a second it turned to an all-out shootout. Flint pulled his gun from the holster on his side and fired wildly at the Latton family, forgetting his father’s training in the heat of rage. He felt a bullet go through his leg, but he hardly felt the pain, adrenaline clouding his mind. His mother, too, had shown up at the battle with a shotgun, taking shots at the nine attackers.
Suddenly, amidst gunpowder smoke and flying lead, Flint snapped to. The nature of the battle became clear, and his mind sharpened itself. He aimed his pistol at the head of the eldest son, and as if he was in slow motion, he fired. His bullet zipped through the air and through the head of the son, killing him instantly.
There was a scream, and Flint felt another bullet fly through his shoulder. The pain hit him like a truck, and he collapsed. Beside him, his parents fell to the ground as well, severely injured, their blood pooling and quickly evaporating in the dust. Flint tried to get a final glimpse of their attackers, tried to look up at them as they approached, but the bright sun above blocked his view.
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One son of the Latton family was roughly restraining Flint, angling him towards the hanging tree as Mrs. Latton finished tying the three nooses. The Latton family farmhouse was to his left, his half-alive parents standing rope-tied on his right, looking grim.
“We might have let one of you live if you just surrendered your land,” Mr. Latton explained. “But you committed a terrible, terrible crime.”
Three of the Latton children pushed and shoved Flint, Mili, and Sodeo towards the lone tree, onto the tall stools, and guided the nooses around their necks. Flint felt his noose tighten, the uncomfortable, scratchy rope restricting his breath. He resigned himself to his fate.
“Your family will hang for the crime of resisting our acquisition of your land and the cold-blooded murder of my eldest son. Rot in hell.”
Mrs. Latton prepared the stools below them to fall, but Flint wasn’t focused on that. He was looking towards his parents, hoping for them to say something.
“Flint,” Sodeo said, looking in his eyes. Mili did the same.
“We love you.”
And then they hung.
In the instant the noose went taut, Flint felt a brief jolt of pain in his neck, and then his vision went dark. He felt a sickening falling sensation through the darkness, black, utter darkness, and then saw a light above. As he fell through oblivion, the light grew in brightness. Flint looked up.
He couldn’t make out what was at the end of the tunnel, but he saw a countless number of specks. Upon closer inspection, they were people, rising up steadily towards the light. Beside him, Flint saw his parents rise up towards that light, while he remained in place. He reached out for them. They looked down at him, but didn’t stop rising. They were getting closer and closer to the light, Flint unable to move, until they finally vanished beyond the veil.
Flint felt a falling sensation again, getting further and further from the light, until…
He landed on the ground on his feet. He looked down, adjusting his eyes to the newfound light.
Flint was back at the hanging tree beside the Latton house. He was standing below the hanging bodies of his mother, his father, and himself. He looked down at his hands. They were a translucent blue, and he could see the ground through them. His whole body seemed to be this way. He could faintly see, hear, feel, and smell his surroundings, but all of them seemed muted in an unplaceable way.
Was he… dead?
The shock Flint felt seemed to be puny in comparison to the shock on the Latton family’s faces. They all started in his direction as if they were seeing a ghost. Were they?
Was he a ghost?
They all screamed, threw objects and took shots at Flint, but everything they did went right through him without an ounce of pain. Objects moving through him felt strange and uncomfortable but left no injury.
He was a ghost.
Flint sprinted away in an attempt to escape. He didn’t know what he was escaping yet. It could have been the horrified Latton family, it could have been the dangling bodies of him and his parents, it could have been existence itself. But he knew he had to get away.
Flint looked up and jumped, trying to fly towards the sun, desperately attempting to rise up like his parents did, desperately hoping for something to happen to him. To wake up from this dream, to die, to realize he’s been dead all along. But nothing happened. He jumped up, reaching for the sun, over and over again, but gravity always brought him back to the earth. He was unable to find his parents, unable to find an escape. He waited there for a moment, his mind racing.
Wherever he was before he returned to the physical world, he had to get back. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had to get back to his parents, with them, where he was really supposed to be. He was supposed to have been punished for the murder of the eldest Latton son, sent to hell to rot. This wasn’t it.
Flint tried to sink into the arid earth and phased right through it. Everything went dark, but he was still conscious. He was only right under the ground, the earth blocking his view of the light. He floated down through the earth, hoping he’d go so deep he fell into hell itself, but there was nothing but darkness. He phased back onto the surface. He looked at himself once more, at his translucent blue figure. He still had his gun, on a holster by his waist. Would that work?
Flint aimed his ghostly gun at a nearby pile of dirt and fired. With a gunshot like a scream, a small blue bullet zipped through the air and tore apart the dirt pile. So it still functioned.
He aimed the gun at his own head and pulled the trigger.
It was loud, the scream-like sound in close proximity to his own ear. The bullet traveled, unobstructed, through his ethereal head and went soaring through the air. He watched it fly away out of sight.
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Flint spent the next several years trying to find a way to return to his parents. One time he gathered all of the explosives he could find and launched them beneath himself in the hopes of flying up high enough to reach heaven, and, inadvertently, he discovered space. While no place or thing in the physical world could take his soul to its home, the great beyond, he learned to navigate the world as an ethereal being and, eventually, to possess another body. Resigned to his ceaseless fate, he pursued a goal he’d meant to fulfill ever since he died.
Mr. Latton heard a knock on the door. The land their family had taken from Sodeo had served them well, the crops they’d seized were thriving. He approached the door and pulled it open to see a stranger pointing the barrel of a translucent blue gun between his eyes. Mr. Latton immediately threw his hands up and looked in the purple eyes of his attacker.
It was indeed a stranger, but there was something eerily familiar about him. The way he was dressed, the structure of his face—it looked exactly like Flint, Sodeo’s son, who he’d killed many years ago. The killer of his own eldest son.
Flint cocked his ghostly pistol, looked his killer dead in the eyes, and pulled the trigger.