Dervish – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

A dervish of dust and leaves kicked up just outside the window and cut at the glass by his face. The leaves were dead, of course. Everything was dead. The cards in his hand were dead. The hair he pushed back from his eyes was dead. The man across the table from him was dead. Only one thing was still alive – the smoking rifle in his lap. The heat off the barrel loosened the muscles in his knee and the weight reminded him of home, of the child that used to sit there and play. Sometimes she played with his beard, other times she would just occupy herself with her own dress. All the while, she would giggle and fidget so that he would keep a hand wrapped firmly around her waist for safety – not just her safety, but his too. She was his joy, his heartbeat. Her survival meant his. Now everything was dead, but for this gun, and he kept a hand wrapped firmly around its thick mahogany stock … for safety.