We’re pleased to announce the second of two winners for the March WWWC: Robert Moore. Responding to the prompt ‘the air was moving’, Robert’s powerful yarn follows a man and his dog trying to make sense of a strange and unwelcoming world.

Read Robert’s winning piece, ‘The Cowboy Man’, below. Find fellow winner Megan Sougleris’s piece here.

The Cowboy Man

In a sea hit rock place, the ponderous hulk of a man. At his side, a dog winces as it breathes dreams.

Carl the cowboy man leans out of the window of the crumbling stone villa and gazes along the esplanade at the people passing by. Half of his distended body hangs on the sill like a runaway blancmange.

He too tries to dream, lulled by the dozens of nesting pigeons in the rotting eaves.

The room behind him, the room he is half in, is sparsely furnished. A portable TV on a chest of drawers is in one corner. In another, a pile of soiled linen lies waiting. On the wall above his bed is a faded black-and-white poster of Zorro.

From the verandah above, there is a constant drift of alcohol and shouts of abuse.

‘Yah bastard. Yah fat bastard.’

A bottle drops, just missing Carl. It smashes on the footpath. The cowboy man looks above and apart from seeing the comforting rim of his hat is confronted by the purple and grey flesh of Dave.

Dave coughs up his guts and missiles it onto the footpath, unaware of the effects of the sea breeze. Carl recoils into his room like a huge snail. He wipes his cowboy hat with the back of his hand and then sits trembling on the end of his bed, staring at the window. He puts the hat beside him, his eyes still fixed on the window. He gets up and moves to the other side of his bed.

The hat is placed out of view.

His unease stirs the dog. She flicks up protectively and walks about the room, head low and tail wagging. She sniffs at the pile of linen and a pathway of underwear, overalls and pullovers. She squeezes between his bulbous thighs.

The repetitive circuit complete, the bitch coils on a threadbare mat to rest.

A door bangs overhead. Glass scatters. An argument echoes around the verandah. Carl moves further along his bed towards a stained pillow. He looks at Zorro.

When everything is quiet again, he gets up and creeps towards the centre of the room, reinstalling his hat at the same time. He bends down and wipes his hand on a pair of dirty undies, then moves back to his spot at the window which opens onto the sea.

The air was moving.

Looking out he sees a flock of seagulls trying to fly against the wind. The birds are blown off course and come to rest on the verandah. Carl leans further out of his window to watch the birds. He tries not to frighten them. He notices how they preen themselves but is upset they can’t fly. He closes his eyes for a moment and listens. He hears the gulls’ plaintive cries above the gentle rumble of pigeons.

Opening his eyes, he notices the patterns made by the birds’ droppings on the footpath. He is distracted by a broken beer bottle. The smashed brown fragments frighten him. He thinks of more angry voices, so backs away from the window and checks his hat again. Reassured by the constant chatter of birds, he sprawls over the sill once more and lowers his weight onto folded arms.

A car pulls up outside. A woman comes to the window.

‘I’ve brought your medicine,’ she says curtly. ‘Take it just as the doctor told you. Three times a day. We don’t want you having one of your turns next week.’

‘And what are those ridiculous things for? Do you want to look cheap?’

She sees love hearts tattooed on Carl’s arms. Carl backs away. His sister leans through the window. He is frightened by her brightly painted fingernails that grip the ledge. He fears they will unleash and attack him.

‘And for God’s sake tidy your room before next week. Remember you’ve got to leave it clean when you move out.’

The strap on the cowboy hat rolls up and down his neck as Carl swallows. He waits for the fingernails to disappear. Still clutching the medicine, his hat slips to the back of his head. He stares at the open window.

It is some time before he shifts. First, he moves his hat back into position, then looks around to find a place for the medicine. He puts the package on the chest of drawers cluttered with empty toothpaste tubes, razors and bottles of deodorant. 

His dog is awake. She moves around the room once more.

The last week, Carl has seen many people in big cars pull up outside. All of them have come through the main door and wandered around the building. Some have stood on the opposite side of the road to get a better look. Carl has seen how they have looked at the roof, the guttering on the veranda and the corroded Carey Gully rock foundations. An auction sign which reads E.J. BLACK REAL ESTATE AGENTS has been secured to the base of the letterbox.

There is a knock on Carl’s door. He shuffles slowly to open it, using his feet to shove more clothes into the tangled pile in the corner. He knows only to open his door and not to expect nice people on the other side. The door drags on the carpet. He grabs it with both hands to slide it open.

A woman welcomes herself into his room and announces to a man at her side, ‘We have several people here from Julia Craig. It’s all part of the government’s idea of letting people like Carl look after themselves.’

The woman pauses briefly. She scans the room with fiery eyes. Privately she is shocked with what she sees. Publicly she succumbs to conversational camouflage.

‘But they’ve been told it’s up for sale and they’ll be out by the end of next week.’

Carl says nothing. He looks longingly at the man and woman. He hopes they won’t growl at him. The man taps the wall with his knuckles, cowers at the orange ceiling but then admires the rosette feeding a single light bulb on the end of a grimy flex.

‘Quite a nice place. Go well as a private hotel. Needs a lot of work though. Any idea how much they’re asking?’

The woman closes the door having given a final look of disapproval. The border collie wags her tail, happy for undivided attention.

Carl unpacks his new bottle of medicine. He finds a dirty cup and fills it with the familiar liquid. He likes the taste and has some more. He becomes drowsy and collapses fully clothed on the top of his bed. On his chest, his hat registers his irregular breathing. The dog sprawls across his ankles.

A week later Carl sees his sister pull up outside.

‘Good God. What a mess. You haven’t done a thing.’

Carl is drowsy. Most of the two-week supply of medicine has gone.

‘Why haven’t you tidied this up?

Carl mumbles, distressed.

‘I haven’t got a suitcase. The washing machine is broken.’

‘You’re damn lucky you’ve got someone to look after you.’

His sister drops plastic bags around the room like black clouds. She throws one at Carl’s feet.

Carl’s belongings are bundled into the bags and placed in a station wagon with three small children and a silky terrier. He watches how everything he owns disappears into the bags. He knows things are a bit mixed up. Clean clothes with soiled. Pillowcases with undies.

He is distraught. The room is his friend. The things in the room his companions. While his sister rushes about, he stands motionless; his hand clutches the strap on his hat. He wants to protest. Instead, his inaction becomes an accusation of laziness. Zorro is ripped off the wall.

Soon the room is an empty bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. It is time for the cowboy man to move out. A single tear falls down his face and drops onto the dog looking up at him. The bitch does incessant figure of eights between his legs. She wags an unenthusiastic tail.

The noise from the children and their dog has driven the pigeons out of sight. Carl’s sister remains irritated.

‘Come on. Hurry up. It’s time to go. Give me a hand with those bags and bring your stupid dog.’

With his room in bags, Carl ventures into the hallway and then out to the car. The bitch follows close at heel. The silky terrier barks aggressively at the border collie.

As he loads the car, Carl says, ‘I’ve got to lock my window.’

‘It’s not your window anymore. Don’t you know they’ve sold the building? It’s going to be flats.’

‘I’ve got to lock my window.’

Carl persists. Holding his hat in the sea breeze, his dog almost trips him over. He waddles up the sandy incline onto the footpath.

He grabs hold of the ledge to catch his breath, then leans into the room and pulls the window shut.

About the author

Robert has worked as a performance artist, artistic director teacher and writer. One of his shows, Carcass-Affirmative Action for Dead Lamb featured a combination of poetry, piano, mime and mutton.
Breathe Easy a children’s play that he co-wrote to help educate about asthma awareness was awarded a special commendation from The Asthma Foundation of South Australia in 1998.
An established writer, he has had numerous articles, poetry and short stories published in a variety of magazines and on national and local radio. An article on HIV was published within Living Now magazine in 2000.
He has an Advanced Diploma in Arts (Professional Writing) from Adelaide ACArts.
Mother Tongue, a short story on domestic violence was the subject of a film in 2014.
He was joint winner of the inaugural Feast Festival Short Story Competition in 2001 and in 2021 won the Feast Festival Short Story competition for established writers.
His published works include Hard Pressed (MLR Press US), Pecking Disorder (MLR Press US, Reprinted with Blazing Heart Publishing US), Esmeraldas’s Nest (MidnightSun Publishing), Noelene Knows Best (Featherweight Press US), About Face (IP Kidz), Map (Macmillan Publishers), and Raspberry Rat (Macmillan Publishers).