LA FEMME MUSKETEER

I am the barrel, cold iron forged in forgotten forges, now gripped in her pale right hand—fingers curled like tendrils of bleached vine around my stock, nails trimmed short, unvarnished, bearing faint crescent moons of dirt from the scrubland soil, a soil compacted with quartz flecks and desiccated root fibers that crunch under unseen boots. [Grip pressure: 4.2 psi, estimated, her thumb pad pressing into the walnut grain of my buttstock, pores absorbing the faint salinity of her sweat.] She smiles, teeth aligned in orthodontic precision, a flash of enamel whites tinged with the subtle yellow of morning coffee residue, lips parted in a curve that mimics the arc of a Gainsborough portrait yet echoes the performative grin of a Laura Ingalls Wilder reenactor on some frontier-themed TikTok loop, the red bow of her bonnet ribbon twisting like a licorice whip in the breeze. Her bonnet itself: white cotton, starched to a crispness that resists the wind's tug, edges frayed microscopically from repeated laundering, the fabric weave a 200-thread count plain, absorbing the diffuse sunlight that haloes her head in a lens flare artifact—golden spikes radiating outward, diffusing into the desaturated greens of the chaparral behind, where thorny branches interlace in chaotic fractals, leaves serrated like shark teeth, dusted with silica particles that glint under the overexposed sky. The hat atop, straw woven in herringbone pattern, brim curled upward at 15 degrees, shadowed underside revealing the irregular knots of hand-plaiting, a simulacrum of pioneer authenticity that conceals the machine-stitched label, perhaps "Made in Vietnam," an ironic global supply chain void beneath the performative frontier. Her dress: teal wool blend, fibers matted from wear, collar edged in russet brown like oxidized blood, the scarf a deeper crimson, silk-synthetic hybrid knotted loosely, threads unraveling at the ends in fine filaments that dance like cilia in the implied gusts.

[Auditory layer: Rustle of dry twigs, decibel level 32, a susurrus mimicking the whisper of petticoats in a Brontë novel or the static hiss of an old Western film reel, her breath shallow and rhythmic, 12 inhalations per minute, carrying faint vocal hum—a diegetic melody, perhaps "Yankee Doodle" fragmented, notes flattened by the open air, interrupted by the distant caw of a crow, pitch-shifted downward in Doppler echo.] I feel the vibration through her palm, the subtle tremor of her laughter suppressed, a sonic ripple that travels my length— from frizzen to muzzle, where the bore gapes empty, a 0.75-inch diameter void polished to a mirror sheen, absent of ball or powder, rendering me a prop in this absurd theater of historical drag. The background blurs in bokeh orbs, sagebrush stems tubular and hollow, textured with bark fissures like cracked porcelain, colors grading from olive drab to khaki beige, Pantone 7497 C, interspersed with desiccated blooms—petals shriveled to papery husks, their shapes evoking the crumpled maps in a Jules Verne adventure or the pixelated artifacts in a low-res video game frontier. Her eyes: blue irises flecked with hazel specks, pupils dilated to 4mm in the shaded underbrim, lashes mascara-free, casting faint shadows on cheeks flushed with a subtle rosacea gradient, skin pores enlarged at the nose bridge, textured like fine sandpaper under the soft focus filter of the image's halftone process.

[Olfactory overlay: Earthy loam rising from the ground, volatile organic compounds of decomposed leaves mingling with the acrid tang of gun oil residue on my metal—linseed and petroleum distillates, evoking the sterile scent of a museum diorama or the synthetic pine of a car air freshener labeled "Wild West." Her perfume absent, replaced by the faint musk of human exertion, sebum and lavender soap traces from the bonnet's fabric softener, undercut by the ozone sharpness of impending rain in the arid air, a bouquet that conjures the fermented yeast of colonial bread or the chemical aftertaste in a Pop-Tart wrapper.] Compositionally, she leans forward at 10 degrees, body mass centered on her left foot implied beyond the frame, my weight—7 pounds, 3 ounces—pulling her shoulder downward, creating a diagonal line from muzzle tip to her chin, a vector that bisects the image like a Barnett Newman zip or a lightsaber beam in freeze-frame. The light source: solar, at 45 degrees elevation, casting specular highlights on my lock plate, chrome-like reflections bouncing off the brass trigger guard curved in ergonomic crescent, its patina scratched with micro-abrasions from prop handling. Her hair: strands escaping the bonnet in wispy curls, honey blonde with split ends, textured like raw silk, framing ears unpierced, lobes soft and unadorned. The scene's emptiness amplifies the absurdity—a void of companions, no Redcoats or prairie wagons, just the spectral whites of her coif against the thermal gradients of cooling brush, as if I'm the witness to a glitch in the historical simulation, clutched in this eternal pose, iron unyielding, while her grip tightens imperceptibly, a pulse of warmth transferring through callused skin. [Frame stasis: Infinite loop, no discharge.] The branches claw skyward, thorns hooked like fish lures, materials organic yet brittle, snapping potentials in the wind's inaudible whistle, carrying pollen grains that irritate imagined nostrils, blending with the faint metallic bite of my bore. She sticks, frozen in this catalog of surfaces, a performative artifact where identity dissolves into costume layers—cotton, wool, straw—each thread a filament in the web of erasure, my wooden stock absorbing the irony, grain patterns swirling like van Gogh vortices under her fingers.

Albert Abdul-Barr Wang

Albert Abdul-Barr Wang is an indigenous Taiwanese-American Los Angeles-based Oulipo-influenced poetic bard, experimental writer, and visual artist. He received a MFA in studio art from the ArtCenter College of Design (2025), a BFA in Photography & Digital Imaging at the University of Utah (2023), and a BA in Creative Writing/English Literature at Vanderbilt University (1997).

Wang's artworks, prose, and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in TIMBER, The Adroit Journal, New Delta Review (NDR), BRINK, Clockwise Cat, Ekphrastic Review, The Hooghly Review, Brooklyn to Gangnam, and fractured lit. His piece "Bryan Betancur, Insider #2160" was longlisted for the The Masters Review's 2025 Summer Short Story Award for New Writers judged by Jennine Capó Crucet. He is currently the literary editor-in-chief at Brooklyn to Gangnam and a prose reader for Quarterly West. You can find him at www.albertabdulbarrwang.art and on Instagram at @albertabdulbarrwang.