If I Were To Write A Piece Of Flash Fiction About Westworld,

I would make sure to hide in amongst the comic books at the local general store. I’d want to have a ten year old discover it as an older and less graceful brother bumped into so many shelves that the owner of the store had to leave his spot behind the counter, wander over, and urge said brother to please be a little bit more careful, an act which would give the young kid a chance to discover the pages and silently gasp at the patience of a world built by a group of horses gathered around a copy of The Lone Ranger by Zane Gray and saying things like, “No, no — you need to stand over there, take a slow human walk, and shout, ‘I thought I told you to leave town and never come back.’” And the horse would blow through its lips in recognition, walk over to the designated spot, and try the lines again.