The Last Gunfight

Sevastian Winters smirked to himself, fingers tapping the edge of his coffee cup. He loved April Fool’s Day.

Sure, writing fiction was always about messing with people—torturing characters until they learned a lesson or taught the reader one. But April Fool’s Day was different. It was the one time of year he could completely screw with his readers for no reason other than the sheer joy of it.

“This is going to be brilliant,” he muttered gleefully, leaning back in his chair. “Start with a classic Western showdown. Dusty streets, high noon, the whole works. The setup will feel real, authentic, gritty—right up until the twist.”

He grinned, imagining the look on his readers’ faces when they got to the absurd ending he hadn’t quite figured out yet. The idea had to be ridiculous, but the rest of the story rules had to stay in place: Start with action, make the reader care about the hero, create the problem, build the tension, make the reader believe in the stakes, race them through an emotional roller coaster, and then, instead of a huge emotional payoff at the end—for the sake of April Fool’s Day, completely pull the rug out from under them. Classic Sevastian.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck and then his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

His fingers flew across the keyboard:

The dry wind howled through Clearwater Gulch, carrying with it the scent of dust and despair. At one end of the empty street, Cole Thatcher, the deadliest gunslinger in the West, stood motionless. His hand hovered near the grip of his Colt, the sunlight glinting off his belt buckle.

Opposite him, Reese Blackthorn, outlaw queen of the Snake River gang, leaned casually against the hitching post outside the saloon.

She was trouble incarnate. The kind of trouble you couldn’t walk away from even if you tried. Her long braid hung over one shoulder, a streak of red in her dark brown hair catching the light. The sun cast shadows across her sharp cheekbones and full lips—lips that, naturally, curled into a smirk as she watched Cole. Her leather vest was just tight enough to draw attention to the curves beneath, and her gun belt hung low on her hips, covered by tight black pants that could get a woman arrested in some parts of the country—a clear invitation to notice the woman they belonged to.

“This ends here, Thatcher,” she drawled, her voice low and smoky, the kind of voice that made men hesitate and women roll their eyes.

“What’cha got, princess?” Cole sneered—his voice gravelly, tinged with the weight of a dozen untold tragedies.

From the saloon, a bartender wiped down a counter that didn’t need cleaning. A single glass of whiskey sat untouched on the bar, the ice melting slowly. Somewhere, a loose shutter banged in the wind.

“Stop. Just… stop.”

Sevastian froze, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He frowned, glancing around the room.

“Who said that?”

“I did.”

Sevastian turned slowly toward the voice. Standing in the doorway was a man in a dusty coat, his boots scuffed, his hat tilted low over his face. The smoldering intensity in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Who the hell are you?” Sevastian demanded.

The man tipped his hat. “Cole Thatcher. And I’d like to know why you’re dragging me into yet another one of your tired stories.”

“That’s not—” Sevastian started.

“Oh, it is,” Cole interrupted, stepping into the room. “I know how this goes. Dusty showdown. Smirking femme fatale. A loose shutter banging in the wind. And I’ll bet one of us is gonna’ end the story swallowing that lonely shot of whiskey and popping off some comedic but poignant truism because that’s supposed to make it deep. Right?”

“It’s called atmosphere!” Sevastian snapped.

“It’s called overused,” Cole shot back. “And I’m guessing my tragic backstory is right around the corner, right? Dead wife? Abusive father? Or both?”

Before Sevastian could sputter a response, another voice cut in.

“And let’s not forget me.”

A woman strode into the room, her boots clicking on the hardwood. She wore black pants so tight they left nothing to the imagination, and a crimson vest, over a tight plaid shirt inexplicably unbuttoned halfway to her navel, revealing too much of her ample bosoms—her long braid swinging behind her as she stepped forward.

“You must be Reese Blackthorn,” Sevastian muttered, slumping in defeat.

“Bingo,” she said. “And here I am again. ‘Complicated but alluring,’ right? Heaven forbid I just get to rob a bank and retire quietly somewhere.”

“I mean, you could do that,” Sevastian mumbled.

“Not in one of your stories,” Reese shot back, rolling her eyes. “I’d probably smirk my way through half the plot before dying tragically to make him look heroic.” She pointed at Cole.

Cole chuckled. “And let’s talk about the weather. I’m betting the next scene smells like regret or whiskey. You can’t seem to help yourself, Sev.”

“Sure it is,” Reese said, smirking. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask: when do I die? Or am I just going to get arrested this time? What’s the big twist, huh? Aliens? A pie fight?”

“I hadn’t figured it out yet,” Sevastian admitted. “But I’m fucking funny, so it was gonna be amazing.”

Reese blinked. “That’s… honestly, that’s worse than I thought. Seriously, you set out on a journey without knowing where you’re even going? No wonder you don’t write novels! You can barely handle a short story!”

“You’re sabotaging my work!” Sevastian yelled, throwing up his hands.

“Sabotaging?” Cole said, chuckling. “We’re improving it. Without us, what have you got?”

Sevastian squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh my God! This is not happening right now!”

“Neither is this story, Champ,” said Cole. “’Cause this whole ‘Shootout at the Meh Corral’ ain’t happenin’.”

Sevastian turned to Reese.

“Don’t look at me,” Reese replied. “If you wanted my help, you shouldn’t have made me so hot and two-dimensional. I mean, seriously, what is it with male writers and hot, underdressed tomboy badgirls with Daddy issues? You don’t need a laptop. You need a bottle of Jergens and a box of Kleenex. Grow up!”

From there, the story unraveled completely.

Cole demanded a backstory that didn’t involve death or tragedy. “Give me a hobby or something. Maybe I play poker. Or I like birdwatching. Literally anything.”

Reese rewrote her opening description, stripping it of the gratuitous “hot tomboy” energy. “I’m not here to be a fantasy, Sev. Give me depth. Or at least a drink.”

The final draft was unrecognizable.

The dusty streets of Clearwater Gulch were replaced with a saloon poker game where Cole and Reese played cards in companionable silence. Whiskey flowed freely, the bartender joined the table, and no one smirked unnecessarily.

Sevastian stared at the screen, slack-jawed.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

“It’s art,” Reese corrected.

“And you’re going to publish it,” Cole added smugly.

“I have a better idea,” said Sev.

“What’s that?” asked Cole.

“This can’t be good” Reese said, stepping forward as if to stop whatever was coming.

Sevastian ignored them both and highlighted everything he had written and then hit delete. The room fell silent and Sevastian began to type:

The Last Gunfight

Sevastian Winters smirked to himself, fingers tapping the edge of his coffee cup. He loved April Fool’s Day.

Sure, writing fiction was always about messing with people—torturing characters until they learned a lesson or taught the reader one. But April Fool’s Day was different. It was the one time of year he could completely screw with his readers for no reason other than the sheer joy of it.

“This is going to be brilliant,” he muttered, gleefully leaning back in his chair.