Editing Wild Magic

''By SJ Thompson''<ref>I'm not sure if this is [[Sarah Thompson]], or someone else.</ref>


Simeon put down the book. Number five out of seven. Not bad. Only two more to go and I’ll be finished with this whole reading gig.

He glanced at the cover before stacking it back up on top of a pile of seven books. Its cover portrayed an outlaw with a bright red bandana covering the lower half of his face. On the outlaw’s head rested a hat that didn’t fit the cheery oranges and reds of the canyon behind him. The outlaw also sported traditional cowboy wear- boots with spurs, a vest, a faded plaid shirt, and the cool flappy-pants, for lack of a better word.

Did Simeon necessarily care that this outlaw, whose name was supposedly Crimson White existed at one point in time? No, certainly not. But he had had to read all about him. The outlaw had been notorious for stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, like a horse-riding Robin Hood. Crimson was, for some reason, loved by the people, and his chivalry had been known throughout all of wherever he had livedSimeon had only skimmed the book, reading the interesting parts where it looked like there could be something big that happened.

Turning off the light and deciding he was too lazy to change into pajamas, he was almost asleep until he heard it. It was like thunder, or a train, and soon became so loud it was as if he were right there.

Which, turns out, he was. Simeon leapt up as a jet of water came into the room, rushing over the floor and the other various things in the room, making them soggy. He scrambled to grab something helpful, but only caught the top of the book stack, making everything fall except for the book about Crimson.

He threw the book down on the bed as the blinding light of the sun came through the now-fallen-off-into-the-river roof.

The book didn’t bounce, though, as a book normally would, having been thrown onto a fluffy bed. It hit wood, and when Simeon looked down he found his bed was no longer a bed but a small raft, barely big enough for one to stretch out on without touching the rushing river- for that’s the only thing the raging rapids beneath Simeon could be described as. The book was laying there, miraculously unscathed, and Simeon bent down to pick it up.

As soon as he’d touched it, a gush of water hit him in the face and he stumbled back, nearly toppling the raft over. He sat down fast after that.

A roar sounded, not from an animal but from a sure drop to a watery doom: a waterfall.

“HANG ON,” exploded a very southern voice from the bank, “WE’LL SAVE YOU.”

His raft was being sloshed back and forth by the rapids beneath it, and to his left, a figure rode a horse who was racing towards the waterfall at top speed, only to be gained upon by another horse. This second horse surpassed the spotted horse the first rider sat atop, and let out a shrill whinny. All Simeon could make out were two figures, and the only thing he knew for sure was that these two figures had cowboy hats on their heads. He could only guess where he was, and more importantly, what his fate was to be.

The drop loomed closer, the raging sound of the water hitting... other water... at the bottom drowning out all possible logical thoughts. All Simeon could think was I’m going to die over and over and over.

The figure on the horse who had surpassed the first horse dismounted, and pulled something from their belt, and Simeon swallowed, looking to the sky. Let it be over, let the pain be swift, I don’t want to experience hurt, he prayed as he looked up, hoping his sure demise would be quick.

The person raised their hand, and Simeon looked to the sky again quickly, not wanting to watch as a bullet surely would fly at him.

But nothing happened.

Instead of the booming of a gun being shot, a shout was heard, and a rope was thrown his way.

He shook himself out of his I’m-going-to-die daze, and barely caught the end of a long rope with a loop at the end.

Without thinking, he stuck the rope onto the raft, wrapping it around so it wouldn’t come loose. A lasso, he thought with realization as the raft was pulled towards the person, going with the current.

Closer and closer Simeon came to shore, and finally he could make out the details of this mysterious savior of his.

A scarlet bandana covered the bottom half of the person’s face and a black cowboy hat was on his head. A faded flannel shirt was partially obscured by a black vest which was nearly the exact shade of the hat. Clothed in flappy-pants and boots with spurs, there was nobody else this could be; it had to be the legendary outlaw that had roamed the wild west so long ago, Crimson White.

A chill ran through Simeon at the thought of seeing someone so old but so spry.

Crimson’s arms worked hard to pull him out of the rapids, and finally he was there, the water unsuccessfully trying to pull him away.

Simeon snapped out of his daze, and stood up shakily on the raft, and at the last second jumped, landing in the thick mud. He looked down in dismay at his sneakers, which had been so clean before, but were now thickly coated with the brownish-red mud of the riverbank.

The person who had had the lasso, Crimson, strained against the river, and once Simeon was safely on shore pulled the lasso towards himself, and the raft Simeon had been riding on toppled over the side of the cliff, into the roaring waters of the waterfall below.

Simeon shook off his leg, which was still very much weighed down by the mud and looked up to his savior and the proclaimer, the savior glaring, the proclaimer grinning and waving frantically.

“Oh my SWEET CORN that was a CORN-FACED thing to do, what in this

CORN-FORSAKEN world is WRONG with you!?” exploded the outlaw, glaring at Simeon.

“Crims, Crims, breathe, slow down, it’s going to be oka—” the proclaimer began, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Crimson ripped off his mask, and, to Simeon’s surprise, he found that he was not in fact a he, but he was in fact a she, and she was quite angry looking.

“Excuse me, I need an answer,” she said, crossing her arms, hat pulled low over her eyes, so all Simeon could see was angry freckles and a frown.

Simeon couldn’t help but laugh at her expression—it seemed that no matter how angry she tried to be, she looked funnier and funnier.

“Oh, you’re laughing at me, huh? You know how fast I could whip out Ember!?” “Let’s all breathe, cmon, Crims, it’s okay, I think he’s safe—”

“He best be!” exclaimed the outlaw. “If he’s not, we’d have to dump him off in Salsberry, and—” she let out a whistle, shaking her head a moment “—we all know how that worked out for the last guy.”

“So, wait—” Simeon butted in, the first time he’d been able to get in a word edgewise. “You’re Crimson White? Outlaw of—”

“Cowgirl. But yes.”

“But the book said—”

“I don’t care what the book said, I’m a cowgirl. Case closed.”

Then she looked to Simeon curiously. “What book?”

Simeon chuckled, remembering his training that consisted of watching timetraveling movies. “Eh, no book. So, Crimson, what’s next?”

The cowgirl was thinking too deeply to register Simeon had spoken to her, and the proclaimer just shrugged.

“It’s a mood,” he whispered to Simeon, then, stepping back. “Sam Keebler.” Simeon shook his hand, and Sam gave a smile. “Simeon.”

“Ever handled horses?” he asked, straightening his own hat.

“Nope,” Simeon said, more of a question than a definitive statement.

“That’ll change.” Sam hefted himself up onto his own horse, which was spotted all over, almost like a dalmation. Upon noticing Simeon was studying the horse, Sam gave a slight smile. “Domino,” he said, as if it explained everything. And, a few seconds later, Simeon realized that, oh, that must be the horse’s name.

Sam stuck out a hand and Simeon barely pulled himself up onto the horse’s back, the horse nickering in response to the added weight.

The horse charged ahead at Sam’s spurring it on, and glancing at his boots, Simeon found there wasn’t actually a spur or anything on them, the horse was just so well trained it heeded Sam’s signal.

The reddish dust cloud was left behind as Sam’s horse galloped after Crimson’s, and not thirty minutes later, they were at a cave.

The cave was in the canyon wall, and was mostly hidden by rocks.

When Sam had dismounted and safely stored the horse who-knew-where, Crimson yanked off her bright red bandana.

“Aright here’s the deal. We help you, you help us,” she said, getting down to business.

“Uh—” Simeon started, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to say.

“Got it?” she asked again, face scrunched up in a glare, freckles crinkled up, making her look even more mad.

Freckles?? Should not?? Be?? Intimidating?? Simeon thought, but nodded.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging.

Sam came back in, blinked, looking between the two and slowly backed away, ready to walk out when Crimson spoke again, “Wait, Sam. The plan’s on.” “Sweet!” exclaimed Sam with a grin, pumping his fist in the air, cowboy hat flying off his head.

Crimson frowned at Simeon. “But first we need to get you out of those clothes.” -

-

-

The sky was fading into a deep indigo, and soon would be darker than night. The canyons provided small bits of coloring, but soon nobody would be able to see them, as, it would be pitch black.

The idea was simple: there had been a corrupt sheriff who had taken over the small town, and Crimson and Sam needed help taking him down. The plan? Not so simple.

Sam was to catch the sheriff’s attention, Crimson would have a full-out duel with the sheriff, and Simeon was just backup.

And so it began. Sam crept towards the sheriff’s office, walked through the door, yelled at him, then ran back out, as is always a good idea with distractions.

The sheriff, looking quite confused, got up, and dashed to the door, whipping out his gun. But the only person he saw was Crimson.

And all of this was observed by Simeon, looking through the eye-hole bit of a barrel.

“Crimson White. Haven’t seen you in a while,” said the sheriff, gun up.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” said the outlaw, hat pulled low.

With a bang, Crimson’s gun was out of her hand, on the ground. She glared at the outlaw, and Simeon could imagine the look on her face.

“Surprised?” asked the sheriff, twirling his gun around in his hand, an evil grin on his face.

“Nope,” said Crimson, diving to the ground, Sam leaping onto the back of the Sheriff, wrestling him as best as he could to the ground.

“YEARGH,” the sheriff yelled, wrestled to the earth, getting his dark outfit all dirty.

“You’ll pay for that, boy,” he threatened, glaring.

“Sure. And the name’s Sam. Sam Keebler,” said Sam, glaring at the sheriff, whose gun was also on the ground by now.

“Okay, Man Cobbler,” said the sheriff with a smug look on his face.

Sam scowled. “Get out of the town,” Crimson hollered, “And we might not hurt you.”

“Too late,” said the sheriff, who had grabbed his gun. “It’s you or me. And I always win,” and with that, the sound of a gun being cocked echoed through the deadsilent town.

And Simeon leaped, grabbing hold of the Sheriff, falling to the ground.

Except it wasn’t the ground. It was his bed. And next to him was a seething sheriff.

“What have you done!?” exploded the sheriff, gun in hand, now pointing to Simeon.
[[Category:Short Stories]]