( The following is MY OWN CREATIVE WRITING ) :

Alone again, the traveller wanders into a bar blinded by the midday sun.

Does he drink or ask for directions? Neither, he realises his mistake, turns and starts making for the door. Why did he come here, it had all changed, many years had passed and the tables had turned.

Pausing for a moment to admire the Piano hidden in the corner, like a display item, perched up high on the raised platform, he smiled and continued walking towards the door.

But before he could get to the door, a lonely figure rose from his chair and said “Good-day friend”.

The traveller raised the peak on his cap, still wet from the morning dew, many layers has he consumed on his journey and already those closest to his hand are torn, engrained with dirt, but only one catches the saloon owners eye.

Blood, still wet, was slowly dripping onto the floor like a crimson sea flooding the spot where he stood. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow. Unsure, was he hallucinating or dreaming, the traveller held out his hand, as if to shake the old mans hand, but the old man faded away.

Was he a ghost or had he disappeared from his view?

Still remembering those innocent years when he rode in as a young rogue. The memory remained strong, the once bustling saloon bar had been the hidden gem of the west. The smell of young women still hung in the air heavy with musk, with the occasional blessing of a light perfume from a young apprentice.

Wiping the dust from his lips, his journey long and hard, he paused and muttered words only audible by the younger man behind the bar.

His load was heavy, carried inside a concealed box. Was it treasure, jewellery perhaps, no, it was a delicacy, a gift from his father to his son, carried miles across the open desert, like a concrete noose around his neck. The man places it in the hand of his outstretched friend.

Words defy the moment, the two men stood and shared a look of understanding. If it was not for the past and its mysteries which stood between them, they would not have such mutual respect, not known each other’s life story and what each had meant to one another.

The traveller stood there straight up leaning on the bar now, drifting in and out of consciousness as if sleepy, consumed by the drink he had already found in his hand in that moment, which seemed to have lasted a lifetime.

The light swung heavy between the old man and his comrade, whom now stood at his side, brandishing his wrench, an old wagon lay up in front of the bar. The traveller turned, raised an eyebrow in the direction of his former comrade and the old man, his layers swirling in the wicked west wind. “Don’t worry, its cool” he muttered as he passed them both. He knew he had overstayed his welcome. It was time he headed back toward the Shadows of the North…