Prompt#15: Making up words!

Word Count: 499 of 500 MAX
DAY 15 Prompt: (1) Use these two made up words in your story: flutattling, trinsk. (2) Also make up two more new words and use them. You must not explain what the words mean, it should be somewhat apparent from context. At least two of the words must appear in non-dialogue/thought sections of text (i.e., narrative). The words cannot be used as Proper Nouns. Do not highlight the words in anyway.

         It was a beautiful day in the frontier town of Dead River; a rarity this far west. On a day like this the townsfolk would find any excuse to be outside to enjoy the anomalous weather. But today the streets were empty, silence carried on the cooling breeze. Behind the wooden and tin walls, a feeling of unease permeated.

         A stranger had ridden into Dead River. He’d come out of the West on a stallion dark as midnight. To the west of Dead River was nothing but the boiling waters of the town’s namesake and scorched earth. Nothing survived out west.

         “How long has he been in there?” Marisa stared out the window of the General Store, her eyes fixed on sheriff Taggart’s office. She heard the proprietor, Mr. Hopperton, shuffle up beside her.

         “Can’t say for sure. Maybe an hour?”

         “Who is he? What’s he doing here?”

         Mrs. Hopperton came out of the backroom, a drink in hand. “I heard from deputy Kyle that he’s hunting for someone that done him wrong. Maybe it’s Hanna Reese’s husband. I heard he was gone for a few days and now that he’s back they suddenly have all that money.”

         Mr. Hopperton didn’t bother to turn around. “Dammit, Flo, that’s enough flutattling from you! You never have nothing nice to say about anyone. Keep your yap shut!”

         Mrs. Hopperton stormed off in a huff, drink still in hand.

         Sheriff Taggart read the remizule one last time before folding it and handing it back the stranger. He looked over at Pastor Jenkins and sighed. “Its legit, Pastor; signed by the governor himself.”

         “I don’t care, sheriff.” Jenkins pointed a finger at the stranger. “I don’t care how righteous he think’s he is. No one should have the authority to be judge, jury and executioner.”

         “Ain’t up to us, Pastor. Law and that piece of paper says he’s got every right to seek justice.”

         Jenkins fumed but didn’t say another word. The stranger tucked the remizule in his jacket. “Is there a place I can get a drink?”

         “Bailey’s”. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s at the end of the street. Don’t bother ordering the hooch, they like to pour it pretty trinsk. You’ll get more if you stick with beer.”

         The stranger tipped his hat. “I’ll be on my way soon enough.” He was gone.

         “Sheriff, this ain’t right.”

         Taggart rubbed his eyes. “Let it go, Pastor. What’s done is done.”

         All activity stopped. He wasn’t surprised, it was the same every time. As usual, the bar was full of slandoons, their grey and white hair slicked back, mustaches waxed. He wondered how many of the gold necklaces and jewelry being flaunted were real. He almost felt bad for the few young ladies being fawned over.

         His quarry wasn’t here; not in this shithole of a town. Deep down he knew it. He exhaled and stepped up to the bar. One drink, he thought, then the search would continue.