(using this book, set timer for ten minutes and wrote a short story relating to the word “draw,” edited lightly)
It was high noon and the hot sun beat down on the quiet town of Burrville. At the south end of Main Street, Brawn McTuffest stood stock still, his hand poised over the six-shooter hanging from his hip. Facing him, roughly thirty yards away, was Tiny O’Smallhans. Tiny hastily wiped the sweat from his forehead then waved his right hand over the old Colt he’d shoved into his belt not twenty minutes before.
On the far side of the dusty road, women and children and mischievous old men waited for one of the gunslingers to make their move. The old men whispered back and forth as they placed their bets. The bored children kicked their feet in the dirt. And the women, careworn and hard-nosed alike, looked from one man to the other, and finally they looked across the street at Honey Flower.
“This is all that Honey’s doing,” the women whispered, clucking their tongues.
Brawn took a confident step forward.
Tiny shook in his boots and wiggled his fingers some more.
Honey, meanwhile, alone on her side of the street, considered her two heroes. Each had certain attractions to counter their flaws. She smiled across the street at the townsfolk who were plainly bothered by this display. Honey blew a kiss to the small group of young boys and then returned to her work.
Putting pencil to paper Honey continued with her drawing. She colored in Brawn’s dark hat and added droplets of sweat to Tiny’s face. She was just starting to sketch in the crowd when a gunshot rang out. Honey screamed when she saw Brawn drop to one knee. But the townsfolk erupted in laughter once they realized he’d shot himself in the leg.