Creative Writing: No Country for Old Men (Re-Mastered)
A mysterious man stood at the top of a hill, in a desert which no one ever wished to cross into. A desert so barren that it could not even support the life of a microbe. All that stretched for miles, was dust, dust and more dust; no water... no food - just dust. It seemed like the perfect place in which to commit a crime, a crime that you wouldn't want anyone to find. No policeman, man or dog would ever dream of crossing those borders.
Llewellyn Moss was just a regular "hillbilly"... people despised him. He lived in what seemed to be a rundown camper van site, with his wife Carla. Life wasn't great for Llewellyn, he didn't have a job, nor for that matter the qualifications to get one; he was what the rich people in New York would call "White Trash". Upon his head was a hat that looked similar to the hat of a cowboy, and to accompany it some brown leather boots with spurs. Beneath the hat his long, curly, scraggily hair black as the night sky, rested upon his shoulders where the strap of his gun lay.
He was standing there, with something rifled to his shoulder, eagerly staring with one eye through his optics. His cross hairs swept across the plain of dust looking for anything that moved. They jolted to a stop, like a train in emergency, halting on what seemed to be a stag. Hesitating a moment, he took out his watch, looked at the time, took his focus off the scope and adjusted his sights. The wheel, on top of the scope, clicked round four times clockwise moving the vertical hair four metres to the right. He wasn't there to kill nobody, but simply to get food to support his family. Slowly he waited for the stag to stand still, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. BANG! The bullet's dynamics allowed it to soar through the air hitting the stag in the leg within a second of its departure. "Damn it!". The creature limped off. Llewellyn reloaded his rifle swiftly, and began his descent of the hill. No luck. It was gone.
Looking through his binoculars, in one
Llewellyn Moss was just a regular "hillbilly"... people despised him. He lived in what seemed to be a rundown camper van site, with his wife Carla. Life wasn't great for Llewellyn, he didn't have a job, nor for that matter the qualifications to get one; he was what the rich people in New York would call "White Trash". Upon his head was a hat that looked similar to the hat of a cowboy, and to accompany it some brown leather boots with spurs. Beneath the hat his long, curly, scraggily hair black as the night sky, rested upon his shoulders where the strap of his gun lay.
He was standing there, with something rifled to his shoulder, eagerly staring with one eye through his optics. His cross hairs swept across the plain of dust looking for anything that moved. They jolted to a stop, like a train in emergency, halting on what seemed to be a stag. Hesitating a moment, he took out his watch, looked at the time, took his focus off the scope and adjusted his sights. The wheel, on top of the scope, clicked round four times clockwise moving the vertical hair four metres to the right. He wasn't there to kill nobody, but simply to get food to support his family. Slowly he waited for the stag to stand still, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. BANG! The bullet's dynamics allowed it to soar through the air hitting the stag in the leg within a second of its departure. "Damn it!". The creature limped off. Llewellyn reloaded his rifle swiftly, and began his descent of the hill. No luck. It was gone.
Looking through his binoculars, in one