Author The Painter (Works) is fine with any constructive edits you wish to make to this literary work.

The young boy Wallace grows up in a rich and snobby family, but a new interest that increases inside him makes his family displeased. One day he decamp and starts his journey into the wild west.

The Paragon is a story about life, death and the consequences of our actions guns and violence.


He didn’t respond the shout, but after a few moments he lifted himself up from the old chair and fudged through the bar. Everybody was looking at him with attentive, but daze eyes. It was like a trial, were he was the suspect; the people did not sympathize with him, but knew very well what that was meeting him.
Wallace!” The voice shouted again. “Come out, I know you are there!
He came out.
By just as short look at the man’s face, he could see that he was at least as nervous as himself. Wallace walked slowly, without losing the man out of sight, until he was at the center of the street. People began to disappear from the streets. They had seen this before. For the inhabitants liquidations like this was something you almost saw monthly. But they also knew that standing in the range could be unhealthy.
Wallace and the guy just stared at another, waiting for the other to make a bad move. The sun was nearly down below the mountains, hoping to retire in silence. But after about half a minute, the total silence got interrupted of a high, inhumane scream just some quarters away.
It was just a cat, but before anyone reached to think about it hell was out. The only sound that could be heard clearly was the sharp and high shooting, and all the gunpowder smoke made it impossible to see anything. But there aren’t more than six bullets in six-shooter, so the argument exchange had to take a break, so the opponents could recharge. But after the smoke lay down, everybody could see that there was no reason for recharging.
One man lied lifeless on the muddy ground. One man made a new mark on his revolver handhold.


It was a very big wedding; nearly all the snobs in town were invited. And even more came. I remember I stood there right outside the main door to our party house and nodded to everyone that passed thru it. Some of them, mostly the old and ugly ladies, just had to give me those horrible hugs that only such warty, creased goose-faced women can give. But after what I remember as at least a decade, the queue of aunts and grand-mothers were gone, and the only trouble left were to lift my old paralytic granduncle over the entrance stairs. Though it was a quite big house, it felt very tight in there when everyone was finished with the punctiliously talk and one of our servants had locked the door. I was everything but comfortable. It wasn’t only the tightness that bothered me, but the marriage itself was a bad joke. My father died three years ago, on “no-no” business, my mom told me. She didn’t seem so very sad about it, and some time ago she found this new guy. Pale, tall man with a ugly moustache and long, red nose. I didn’t like him. He nearly never talked to me, preferably didn’t see me at all. And he had these friends. Surely some assholes, I thought. Not to far from the truth either. They were his lawyer associates.

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