Here is another story I am working on! A short intro once again (I'm close to finishing Butler, Missouri).
The cowboy, all round, steered and lassoed in local competitions, liked his coffee black, up in the morning as the roosters start to hack. Under the thirty-two watt tube lights that blinded his morning eyes, he walked, a growing stigmatism in the left, a lack of patience in his right. It’s five o’ clock and the nurses are annoyed by his early morning pacing. They eye ball him while the cowboy is up and down the hall, back and forth, until he shakes the fire ants out his jeans. That’s what his grandmother called it. Country is his name, though, some call him “Big Country,” but that doesn’t bother him, he gets along with all, all fine. His sticky socks, extra-extra large, yellow, stuck on the cold tiles, and he has his cowboy hat. Country always wore his cowboy hat, never without, unless it’s supper and he said a prayer. It’s made from rabbit felt, tanned, and curved at the brim, but back home he had nicer.
Country paced til six o clock until the smell of coffee from the activity room broke his route to grab a Joe.
“Morning, Big Country,” Kelly said.
“Morning, Kelly,” Country responded, giving a nod, then walking to grab a cute Styrofoam cup, decorated monotone flowers.
Kelly Klein, a retired Iran Apache helicopter pilot, suffers from ptsd, sits with her coffee also black. Flown for many years, three tours, killed people, and it’s all coming back.
“How do I turn Sonic two off the screen?” Kelly complained, pressing the off button on the remote, smashing her thumb red, trying to watch her pictures.
“You can’t,” Sam Colt said, a follower of faith, a thousand page book in his head, gnostic, fearer of the malevolent demiurge, “gotta get Chris.”
“I don’t see Chris,” Kelly snapped.
“Well, we’re watching Sonic Two then,” Sam ended that.
Coffee poured into Country’s foam, steam flowed to the heavens. Above on the shelf, an assortment of sweeteners and sugars; Country turned from all that. He sat next to Kelly–whose thumb was neared a purple–and took a sip. From the mouth and down to his beer belly, Country was warmed by the grim coffee. He thought about home and wished to sit next to a campfire, stoking embers, rain sizzling in the fire. He thought of his horses, Milksop and Dainty, and missed them. Missed riding tall yellow grass, a jackrabbit ran by; and sleeping under bushes, praying no rattlesnakes would bite.
Puzzled, “Do they have Sonic three at least?” Kelly asked, thumb a black.