Bottled Promise

The man walked into the store. His gun gleamed like shiny death and his eyes were hidden behind mirrored glasses. He had a hat that had seen hot summers, cold winters, and death in the autumn.

He meant business.

"Bottled promise" he told the clerk, his mirrored shades reflecting back the fear in the clerk's face.

The clerk reached behind the counter and handed it over. The room dimmed. The air conditioning, which had been blowing cool and loud all night, suddenly silenced.

Outside, a clutch of blackbirds had been cawing all morning, pecking at the remains of french fries and ketchup abandoned on the lot.  As a single unit, they turned toward the store.  Eerie silence ensued.

The clear blue Southwestern sky darkened, as clouds sped in from the north, completely against the wind blowing the little multi-colored banners flying from the gas pump awnings.

The flag that had been waving languidly in the baby's breath breeze suddenly dropped against the pole, like a man falling asleep from a sudden bout of narcolepsy.

The man picked up the bottle. He looked at it, his mirrored shades hiding any reaction. The gun lowered.

"Bottled promise" he said, and without another word, walked out into the shimmering hot summer.

The horse that had been waiting for him outside the store whinnyed nervously, froth still visible on his heaving sides.  As the man mounted the horse, his leg swinging up with preternatural speed, the horse startled slightly, giving an unearthly cry.

Without a word or visible motion, the man and horse started forward.  The blackbirds sat still and silent, their feast forgotten, riveted.

As the man and horse reached speed at dusty highway, he was suddenly joined by three companions, also on horses.  As a group, they spurred their mounts and headed across the desert, toward the hazy, shadowed buttes poking up from the dusty earth.

The sky darkened.  Promise unleashed.