TBD

historical fiction of sorts..it's not finished but this is the idea that popped into my head just by looking at a picture

It was the year 1895, and in the corner table of the Golden Tiger Saloon sat a girl in her 25th year. Her hair was cut in a drastic short style, whereas it was longer in front than it was in back. Her eyes were yellow green, and alert to every movement in the bar, yet they expressed a great deal of sadness and loneliness to those who looked into those emerald spheres. A medium sized purple flower clip adorned the right side of her head, adding color to her ghostlike appearance. The girl’s dress was all white as well, from her off-the-shoulder sleeves, to her white button up boots. In the mysterious woman’s lace gloved hands was a glass of red wine. The bottle sat on the table next to something that a woman of that era did not usually associate herself with, a holster and handgun.

 

Soft piano music was playing in the background, accompanied by a single trombone. The trombonist was not the most handsome guy in the place, however, he did attract two of the building’s occupants. The bartender and the woman in the corner each had their reasons for keeping such a careful eye on the musician. As always, it was the bartender’s job to keep peace in his building, but there was something about the trombonist that irked him. Every now and then the owner of the bar, with his bulging arm muscles--he also owned the next door smithy shop--and blonde handlebar mustache would mutter quiet words to the bartender, who happened to be the owner’s brother. No one really knows what exactly the two men were talking about, but the woman in the corner knew. 

 

As the woman sipped her wine slowly, pausing every now and then to refill her glass, the bartender went about his business, keeping one eye on the occupants of the saloon as well as wiping down the cherry wood countertops. The piano music came to an end and the enigmatic trombonist started to play a melancholy tune, drawing out the notes to where they teetered on the edge of being disturbing. The sound of this new music floated to the ears of the few customers and out into the warm night air. Passersbys stopped to listen, each wondering who the mysterious musician was; while others simply proceeded on their way along the wooden walks, ignoring the depressing music. 

While those who in habited this town on a regular basis went on with their business, a lone stranger lurked in the shadows between the buildings. He stood about 5 feet 8 inches tall and was dressed in black pants, a black shirt, and he wore a black felt hat. As he crept along the wall by the saloon, pouring something round the foundations of each structure, the pianist had quietly snuck out a side door and was lighting up a cigar for his routine smoke.