“Every story has a beginning,” he said. The farm was humble, from the tumbledown shack to the tottering barn. A handful of chickens, two bone-thin pigs, and an elderly cow were all the livestock that graced its grounds. He grimaced. It was time to get to work.
“Every…” he muttered, slopping the pigs. “…story…” he sighed, milking the cow. “…has a beginning,” he growled, gathering the meager eggs.
He waited for many years. The farm limped on, never prospering. He looked out on the barren fields and tugged at his white beard, wondering when his beginning would ever find him.
A Million Ways to Die in the West
15 hours ago