Tormented Cowboy
Haspar wasn't sure what had led him out to the frontier of Bronze Deseret to be a lone ranger. Perhaps it had something to do with being born in Bronze Deseret in the first place, the telestial empire, the third when it came to goods. Perhaps it was because he had made fun of his Sunday School teacher, Sister Festner, and her gray bob—the bob had been funny, but the joke had been rude. It had taken him rustling some zardanians on Ammoni-3 to realize that. The zardanians—cow-like creatures with three udders and four humps in their backs—had let his home colony of Nelson Satellite eat for a month, which was nice, and he left a note to Sister Festner, asking for forgiveness. Living out in the wilds, he didn't even know if Sister Festner was alive, but the note he had sent had helped him feel better. So that was something. A small something, but still a something.
Haspar had a lot of time to think about his life and what led to him riding a gilgameshian on the slopes of Ammoni-3. Had a lot of time to atone. Some of the folk back home considered that the life of the cowboy—atonement, repentance, solitude, prayer. Haspar didn't get much praying in nowadays. He wasn't sure a god could be as vast as Deseret. It was a confusing thing—how he could be taught all his life that a magnificent, omnipotent god cared for him particularly, even when so many suffered and so many failed in this raging world of empires and messages. The thoughts of god always tormented him as he crossed the slopes.
For obvious reason too. The prophet Alma, thousands of years ago, hundreds of planets away, had discussed that God reflected God's self in the creation of the universe. Haspar didn't know much about the small molecules that many of his fellow Bronze Deseret Saints discussed—he was kind of like Alma in that regard. But he did know, among the valleys, the mountains, the pink forests, the red rivers, something existed. A god? A torment? Who knew?
He spurred his mount down toward the valley as he looked over the wide stretch of peace. Ammoni-3 was on the almost-habitable list. Some colonies were poking up here and there, B-D Saints wanting to make their mark, but no solid economy nor civilization was settled into its lush landscape. That's what made it peaceful; it also made it haunted, in many ways. Alone with his own thoughts for months on end, until he found a zardanian and he and his gilgameshian brought in its meat.
Before he knew it, he and his gilgameshian had made it to one of the red rivers that crisscrossed the burgundy-hued landscape. He jumped off his seat—in the middle of three different humps—and landed in a spray of pink dust. The dirt always lightened near the water, as if the river itself sucked the red from the landscape around it.
The river glowed. Haspar was sure he had once seen rivers that didn't glow, or at least seen them in a book or film or online or something, but he barely remembered it. Blue, too, he remembered something about blue. He'd probably been on Ammoni-3 for a little too long, truth be told, but there wasn't much money in serving on the frontier and so one couldn't change their fate. Money was the lifeblood of empire, and empire was the body of the universe.
The gilgameshian butted the back of Haspar, pushing him forward. The darn animal always seemed so needy, even though Haspar just wanted to continue in his solitude. He turned around and patted its nose, though. Always treat an animal with respect and a firm hand. Vida had taught him that before she'd gone and thrown herself off a cliff. Well, a zardanian had thrown her off the cliff, but a fool's compass is a fool's compass.
Haspar led the gilgameshian to the water. The brute creatures were good for long journeys, not so good for letting them off their leash too much. They'd stay in a field grazing as a flock of grifta squawked on by, unless they were led away before getting their carcasses eaten.
I am participating in #Archtober from the ARCH-HIVE. They challenged creators to create something every day, or every other day, for the month of October and base it on a theme. I’m free writing for 30 minutes every two days based on the two-day schematic and theme rules they’ve established. So, the writing will probably not be super coherent, but it’ll be fun.
“Tormented Cowboy” is really just a free write. It has no beginning, middle, or end, that could possibly make it a story. Instead, I considered what it might be to like to live on the frontier of Bronze Deseret, the Telestial Kingdom, the solitude, the quiet, the torment of questions. I didn't get a lot out of this free writing session, but that's what happens—some writes are better than others. I'm having a lot of fun discovering this science fiction Mormon theocracy, though.
