- This is one of the prologues I've been playing with for the western juvenile fiction ive been working on. Im not completely satisfied with this one but Im still thinking. The man who talks to the boy (Scotty Murrow [name is subject to change]) is the Bill Horman, the leader of the gang who killed the man and woman and burned the farm.
I wasn't in an angst-y writing mood, so I'll probably be redoing this.
I would LOVE any critique, no matter how harsh. ;3 I want to learn to better my writing since im still a beginner.
Western Story wrote: He saw the dark plume of smoke reaching up to the sky before the sharp smell of smoke met his nose. The fishing pole was carelessly tossed aside as he jumped up and ran as fast his legs could carry him back to the Murrow farm. Twigs and underbrush scratched his face and legs, but he ran on.
A gunshot and a woman’s scream stopped him dead in his tracks. Ma! His heart raced madly as he continued his desperate race to his parent’s homestead.The ten-year-old boy broke from the woods into the field beside the farm. Breathing hard, he halted and was met by a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his years. Five men on horseback were sitting astride their mounts in the front yard as the small cabin, that had once been the Murrow home, burned to the ground. The cornfield had been reduced to ashes and all that remained of the barn was a black skeleton, telling the tale of the horror that had taken place.
Then he saw the bodies of two people lying beside the house. “No! Ma, Pa!” The boy, disregarding the men on horseback, started to run towards the bodies of the man and woman.
He was cut off when one of the men, blocked his path. The boy tried to go around but was again cut off. Tears streamed down his freckled face now. “No, I’ve gotta help them,” he choked as a sob threatened.
The man dismounted and held the boy by the shoulders. “Nothin’ can help ’em now, boy,” he said, looking the young Murrow boy in the eyes.
“But I gotta try!” He struggled to break free from the stranger’s grip. “Lemme go!”
“They’re gone. You hear me? They’re gone, son.”
"You killed them!”
"It was vigilantes. My boys and I just happened to see the smoke.”
The boy wiped roughly at his eyes and turned his frightened brown eyes toward the stranger‘s face. “They’re...they’re really dead?”
"’Fraid so.” The man stood, one hand still resting on the young boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry...”
- I want to change Scotty's name too! In the book, he will be 15.
