The eldest woman of an old desert
town sits on her porch smoking yet another cigarette; her leather skin is used
to the scorching hot desert sun, only needing a straw hat to keep her cool.
Everyone knows this lady as the deceased governor’s daughter, but no one knows
the real story about her. Her life has always been a mystery; she hides in her
house all day peeking out the window to see how the town is doing. The only
time this woman leaves the house is to go buy another box of cigarettes.
Sitting outside on her porch, swaying back and forth on her rickety old rocking
chair, she takes another puff of her most regretted decision in her life. Most people say she is the Python of the West
because of her scaled skin, her small piercing eyes, and her slow creepy
movement. Her wiry hair, like the broom she uses to sweep away the ashes from
her cigarettes, blows in the hot silent wind. The whiskers on her chin resemble
of what a cactus feels like. The clothes on her body have never smelt new since
made; reeking of burnt tobacco. Her
fingers wrinkled, callused, and riddled with arthritis from the long period of
time she has been alive. This all tells a story about how long she has been around
but no one knows the real story of the Python of The West.
