Micah Park Biffle

   The Wild West  My father sprung from the porch and swept me up in his arms. At first I was not alarmed, as a young girl I thought for a moment he was playing with me. But as he picked me up and I giggled he gave no equal response.   I looked up, his face was stern with worry. His eyes gazed into the horizon as the sun started to sink behind the short cascade of desert hills. I then looked over as well and there in the distance like walking shadows, were six men riding horses.   We often got visitors at our home. We were near a central road for travelers. Which we often gave them a place to rest as long as they respected our rules. But these visitors, if you could even call them that were not the usual kind.   My father rushed me into the house and told me to lock the door in stay inside. I was then overcome with fear. My father shut the door and I locked it. As he shut it I saw him reaching for his pistol that was slung over his chair on the ...

 A Wanderer  Guitar in hand and nowhere to go. This dusty road is barren and the sun is high. My body aches to rest but I am a wanderer of my music. I am in search of my muse, the siren that will call me. Leading me to my death, but not before exposing me bare to the wonders that hide within me.   My feet are sore, my boots are wearing thin. My beard is holding this dusty air and my throat is parched. It has been three days and I know not which way I should walk. Each path has appeared similar, dark, dusty, and desolate.   There have been no signs, no lights to signal a turn, a stop, or a cautious disposition. What have I done? Am I but another poor musician taken to the madness of his music? Never to find the glory that will give breath, life to my words, my songs?   Wait, what is that, that in the distance, between the waving waves of heat and the gritty plumes of dust? I see a light, a beaming light of red  in the distance. It is faint, but ...

The Desert Of A Grudge  The sand hails its presence with a mighty wind. The sounds of tumble weeds bristle along the desert stones as rough hands hold to cold steel. fingers grip with intensity, as brass is sent into a chamber for its final descent into flesh. The sun sits high in the sky with a ghostly silhouette between the horizon and clouds. Its heat scorches with envy, as if jealous to never step foot upon land. And as the sun hangs in its envious state, two men steel for steel, stare with much grim. Their faces scuffled and dry from the harsh desert heat. Their lips cracking from the absents of hydration. Their teeth tinted in yellow from cigars and whiskey. And though they stand ready to die, neither wavers in fear. No trembling of hands, no anxious welts appear upon their face. Their eyes steady in the moment, ready for the end, ready to commit to the hands of death. All is silent in this moment as the two stare with no intent to move any further. Vultur...