Steve's Written Works

[Steve]

VII

Of blood and water -- The funeral -- Speaking over the dead --
The town awakens -- Nash -- The timekeeper and the ragged man debate --
A proposition -- A rabble in the streets -- Turned back -- Bart witness to an injustice.

===============================================

How come it to pass. The expulsion from paradise and the curse on Adam and his kin. The tree of life cut at the root. Such as it was these two factions became obvious to one another and they fell upon each other murderously and fought far into the night. It is only after the fall that human creatures would know good and evil, a subjective good and evil, a counterfeit good and evil, and would begin to kill each other over it. They like their ancestors before them could sense these but yet were incapable of good and evil because they themselves had no knowledge of good and evil.

. . .

The cemetery was located near the center of town since time out of mind and so it was said that the town had been born of it. When a member of the community died it was generally considered that all who had ever passed a word to the deceased be in attendance. On this occasion even strangers came to pay their respects.

Flowers which even in such a place were a rarity were nonetheless adorned all around. The attendees shuffled to their places whispering as a man large and rotund in a tightfitting black suit stood by with his hands crossed before his waist waiting for the service to commence. When all were seated he stood there to address them all.

Friends and neighbors, said the man in the black suit. Friends and neighbors, we are gathered together here today at a most somber occasion. The man whose earthly remains lie here, and whose spirit we sent off to the arms of a just and loving God, has been a strong and guiding force in the lives of every person here, whether they know it or not.

It's a good thing they's hung up on this holy roller crap.

Bart had been watching the speaker. He turned to the man who spoke and saw it was Ray Boot. Lately of the western world. He held a widebrim hat in his hands with a low round crown. He was watching the boy earnestly as if he'd be of the same opinion as he.

You aint the religious type, said Bart.

The large man laughed. Me? Shit no, son, I got a job.

The boy nodded and turned back to the speaker who said: This man here was all his life an example of what hard work bestows. He himself was born in such a circumstance as to propel himself amid his own resources at an early age. By force of his own character, by the habits of a working man, he acquired for himself a good quarter of the world's wealth and some of its virtues. But the crowning glory of his life and the true people who benefited from the fruits of his labor are here. Here in this community which he founded.

There was no sound save the speaker. All watched him. The stump of Bart's leg which was pitted and warped and stretched back against the bone began to throb dully as it often did in weather such as this. He bent forward to massage it. The speaker held his hands out to them.

There are many among us today who can remember what life held in the way of promise before this man arrived. Too many of us were birthed in hunger and died the same way. To see what he has brought to the fore. He was not the miser that common rumor made him out to be. He was too good a citizen not to have suffered heavily in these end times. When a man works as he did for the good of the people the results shall not be found in hoarded riches, but in that increased prosperity of those who survive him and will pass it on to the next generation who will do the same after the last of you has passed away.

. . .

The town at dawn.

A row of houses, little more than shanties, flickered to life as kerosene lamps flared in the windows, yellow light pooling in squares through the window onto the dusty high street. A cock crowed somewhere. Dogs yapping in the alleyways. Doors opening and shutting in cadent timing. The low drone of people's voices. The tolling of the mill bell. These streets crawling with young girls, small children.

The cotton mill supervisor at the time was a man named Nash. He was sitting in his office on the first floor of the ancient building, as blind daylight filtered through dustblown windows. An old desk. Boxes and crates decades old standing about on the peeling floor which was made of something called noleum.

This man Nash sitting at the desk glanced up to see the new office boy shuffle past his door. After a while Nash rose and stepped into the outer office. He could see the keeper of the time arguing with a raggedlooking fellow standing in the doorway.

I dont give a shit what they said, the timekeeper said. He was a hardy yet softspoken man past his prime. We aint takin on no one else.

Well, the ragged man said, I done came all this way to work here.

You did.

Yessir. I did.

Who paid your way?

My friends did.

Your friends.

Yessir.

They wont gather up no money to take ye back then, will they?

I dont know.

The timekeeper nodded. Well as it so happens, I do.

I aint never said we was comin back. They said we could come down here and go to work. Put the boys to work. The girls too. Said we'd get a shack n a garden to tend.

Aint no gardens to tend.

How many are there? Nash spoke up.

The ragged man looked at him. Well now sir, there's maybe twelve of us all told. Aint but two of us younger'n twelve though. Some's small for they age but I reckon they'll do fine.

You reckon they'll do fine.

Yessir.

Nash nodded and sidled past the ragged man and glanced out in the street. Standing along the edge of the road like loitering felons were a cabal of maybe a dozen filthylooking souls, weighted down with bales of household items. Knives. A food bindle or two. A few dogs starved thin sat pathetically looking up at their masters. Chickens tucked under children's arms. They all gazed hungrily toward the mill.

Mr Olmos.

The timekeeper looked up. Yessir.

Get two wagons together and send em back wherever in hell they came from.

Yessir. The timekeeper headed out into the sightless day. The ragged man looked up at him.

This a damned outrage, sir.

Go to the church yonder, Nash said. See if they can get you some dinner.

We aint even ate no breakfast yet.

Well then ye better hurry up then, he said.

At this moment Bart Cooper was heading back up to his father's barn with his crutch underneath his armpit and he alternately leaned on it as he hopped forward like the veteran of some bloody conflict. At this moment he saw this man Nash and the ragged fellow and he stopped to listen while standing on his one leg.

Listen sir, said the ragged man. Listen. You sure there aint a place for us now. I mean, we come all this way. I mean, they's said you could use us.

I've heard this before, Nash said. Get goin now.

The ragged man hung his head and turned to meet his rabble. Bart watched him, and saw Nash standing there shaking his head as he turned to go back into his office. Not once did he look to Bart's direction nor did he acknowledge his presence. Even if he had, Bart would not have noticed. He stood there leaning on his crutch watching these poor and shuttered derelicts make their way up the high road.

[Steve]

Re; Billy Said Keep Going

Anyone else want to take a crack at this?

[Matt]

Re: Billy Said Keep Going

I do, I just haven't had a chance to read it yet Steve. The comments have been good so I am looking forward to it.

The site is just about off the ground so for me, personally, there will be a lot more time to actually enjoy things like this out here. "D

[Steve]

VIII

Night in the wastes -- On the balcony -- Abagail in the kitchen --
Lateness of the hour -- A tale of the ancient world -- Provenance.

===============================================

The banks of cloud stood above the warped wastes like the matrix of this vast firmament and the starsprent tendrils of the rotating nebulae and galaxies hung in a great and glittering tapestry above the girl's head. She stood on the narrow adobe balcony that ran the length of the outer bedchamber. Her bare feet on the cool stone ledging as she stared up at the dark moon coined against the darker night sky. This day had been quite extraordinary and yet it had been cast away to the place where used days are cast.

She looked down and saw Abagail in the kitchen of the stonework hovel, silhouetted against the brightly wavering light of the kerosene lantern she kept there. Its soft yellow glow cast over her face and arms as she worked over the thin tray she'd made from clay. Small wheels of sweetcake heaped there like the wedding bands of giants. Her birthday was in two days and they were for her.

The thought of it brought a smile to her face. And yet her joy was besieged and then ceded into a feeling of anxiety. Although she was glad to be here with Abagail, there was another feeling as well. A sense of something greater than this.

Here she looked up past the dark replica moon at the line of stars till she came to the witch's mark on the sky, tracing the jagged lines in the night sky as her grandmother had taught her. There were so many things to be taught, so much yet to know. Never an end to learning.

Here she glanced down from this vast bore. All about her the wastes were silent.

Raquel?

She turned and looked as Abagail came and stood beside her on the narrow ledge. Yes Abagail.

You must come inside. It's late.

Raquel nodded slowly, the seriousness of her gaze having belied her thirteen years. When she saw this Abagail hid a sigh. Sometimes the girl brought a sense of pride. Such fine, dark eyes she had. Eyes that held the weight and wrack of the world.

. . .

Her bed was cut into the rear wall of the hovel like a tiny alcove. Her bedding was a bearskin quilt that Abagail had bartered for long before her birth. A large square of cloth which had once been tattered but had been mended and stitched neatly by her grandmother and adorned with a pattern of stars on a blue field which was radiated with beams of red and white served for her sheet.

Abagail reached in and drew up the etched glass of an oil lamp that hung lashed by a hook she'd fixed on the wall over the alcove. She lit the wick and stepped back, allowing the girl to climb spiderlike into the tiny space. As she did the old woman felt a twinge of regret. Regret for the death of the girl's innocence, knowing that it was foretold by no prophet but known to her as well. Neither individual lives, nor kingdoms survived. Nothing lasted. The old world was dead so the new world would go as well.

So now, she said. Shall I tell ye a tale?

Yes Abagail.

What tale should I tell?

She looked away from her grandmother a moment, her dark eyes seeming to read the dancing shadows within the niche. Then she met her gaze again with a smile.

Tell me of the old world.

But you've heard that a hundred times now, Raquel.

Tell it to me anyway. I like the story. Please.

The old crone smiled and laid her hand on the girl's brow. Then, closing her eyes, she began the ancient tale.

. . .

The lamp was still burning in her workroom on the other end of the stone hut. The halfmade clay urn she'd been making lay where she'd left it on the table. The chisels and knives of her craft lying beside them like surgeon's tools. She stood there a moment uncertain of it all, gazing down at the tray considering what needed to be done. Then she reached up and took down a small case from the shelf where the ancient texts lay swollen and silent in each other's company. Mostly in a language none but her could read.

She thumbed the catch from the box and looked inside. She admired the way it caught her reflection. Her grayed hair mere wisp in her brow.

What do you see, Abagail?

What do I see?

Give me a child. Give her to me.

She snapped the case shut and slipped it back on the shelf. Give a child and fill her head with wonders. With marvels of the west. With tales and facts and dreams beyond reckoning.

What do you see, Abagail? What do you see?

I dont see a thing, she said aloud, and reached over and snuffed out the light.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: Archipelago Chapter VII

Steve, as I said over in Palaver you've got me hooked on this tale, and if when it gets published I want my signed copy.

I re-read Chapter VII (the funeral) as promised. I still think the language of the funeral-orator a bit stiff & stilted. A bit out-of-true with the general run of the story. But really it's a small thing, and every reader is gonna have likes & dislikes with different things in any tale.

Keep on writing it, and post us a bit from time to time to keep the appetites up!

[Steve]

Re: Archipelago

The next chapter will be up very soon.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Bumpidy BUMP!

[Steve]

Re: Archipelago

Don't worry, Brian: I'm trying to gather up all the thoughts on the next few chapters. I'm trying to keep ahead of the game, as it were.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: Archipelago

Don't worry, Brian: I'm trying to gather up all the thoughts on the next few chapters. I'm trying to keep ahead of the game, as it were.

I know - I'm pushy!

[Steve]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a short story I wrote. I'm posting it here for a limited time--say, three days--until I take it down. I'm posting it so that I can get some criticism and feedback before I submit it to be published. But I first want to see if my story is any good. Anyone care to take a crack at it?
-- Steve

************************************************** ***

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."
-- 1 Corinthians 13

I

Robert McEvoy was sitting in the rocker he had caned himself on the front porch of his house in the plumbeous dark of early Sunday, listening to the wind rustling through the sassafras and cedar which grew around his house. Other than that, however, the land had fallen silent as a crypt. The sun would not break over the horizon for another hour but even now the morning redness in the east heralded its coming. McEvoy was holding a mug of coffee before him and as the cold wind stirred his hair he gulped the last of it and pitched the dregs out into the tangled nest of kudzu which strangled the bottom step of his porch like a botanical kraken. He looked out at where the land ran downhill in a staggered landscape of fallen snow and saplings.

Sitting there in the shadow of his house with his breath billowing out in white plumes like steam, his face darkened with three days' worth of stubble and his eyes like hard gray chips of flint set in stone. His lips were set close together and he licked them before they chapped in the hard wintry breeze which trilled in the eaves and whanged against the chimes which hung there like metallic stalactites.

He set the mug down between his feet and turned in the chair and reached for the shotgun which lay on the table beside him. It was a twelve gauge Winchester automatic with a smooth walnut stock and a lacquered finish. The barrel was lusterless and leaden, the color of the holes in the heavens. His father had willed it to him twenty years ago before he'd died, and his own father had done the same before McEvoy was born.

Picking it up by the barrel and testing the heft of it in his hands he laid it across his lap, his pale eyes looking at it and his palm pressing against the stock as though he sought to divine some sort of dull clairvoyance from it. He marveled at the thunderous fury that was pocketed dormant within its fluted marrows, awakened only by the pull of the trigger.

He picked up a limp rag which had once been the hem of an old shirt but was now greased with oil, then began to wipe the barrel of the gun with tenderness and love. He sat there, stroking it one way first and then the other, his face flushed from the cold but he did not stop. His father had learned to him to treat the gun like a woman, with care. A man of infinite patience was his father. McEvoy broke the shotgun open and checked the chambers, then snapped it back. He always kept it loaded with birdshot and the red shell glowed dully in the black tube.

He looked up from his cleaning and stared out at the land which fell away from him in the cold brumous dawn. The trees were spanceled against the sky and the lucent canoe of the moon hung capsized in the east. Nothing moved. There was not even a dog's bark nor the shrill cry of whipporwills in the thicket. It was cold enough that his breath plumed white before him. The clouds skated across the sky in the west, threatening the recrudescence of snow or something worse. McEvoy scooped up his empty mug and carried the shotgun into the house.

He stood there in the threshold of his living room, the shotgun hanging with the barrel pointed downward. The pine paneling was spooned and pried from the walls, some cracked like the rotted planks of a sunken galleon. Stacks of swollen volumes of books and magazines towered in the darkness like a nighted necropolis. A chamberpot sat next to a chair filled with cigarette butts. A pile of trashbags loomed whitely in the murk like plump ghosts. Flattened beer cans were littered about them like fallen soldiers. McEvoy held the shotgun apotropaically as though it were a talisman to ward off these spectres. He looked at the waterstained ceiling, the sagging closet doors. He stood there looking at the periwinkle sofa and armchair which were tattered and motheaten. He doubted if he'd even cleaned them off in months. He set the shotgun in the corner where it nestled between stacks of old cassettes. He looked down at the coffee table which was covered in a fine layer of dust, and he tried to figure out when it had last been cleaned. He reckoned the last time was in the days before Daphne had taken off for good.

He stumbled further into the darkened room like a blind man, looking at the dying embers in the fireplace which hissed in agony beneath charred billets. He scooped up the poker from the hearth and racked the coals until flames sparked to guttering life. Then he leaned forward holding his hands out to warm them. His pale fingers were splayed out and now and then he would flex them until the color flushed back into them.

When that was done he turned and tumbled down onto the couch and lay that way for a long time, his arms and legs akimbo and his face buried in the flank of the sofa. He did not get up and soon he fell asleep listening to the crackle and hiss of the wood burning on this cold December day.

II

He woke to the loud chug of the gunshot which sounded and resounded outside like summer thunder, black and depthless in the sodden dark of his sleep. He blinked foggily, the stertorous sound of his breathing the only sound in the house. Somewhere a crow squawked in protest like a revenant. He shifted his weight and closed his eyes and was once more asleep.

When he woke again there was a loud rapping at his door. He yawned and squinted against the harsh daylight. He stumbled off the couch and shuffled over to the door, his mouth tasting of whiskey and spittle drooling from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and opened the door a crack and saw Sheriff Schuler standing there with his broad hat pulled low against the wind.

Mornin, McEvoy, the sheriff said.

McEvoy backed up and opened the door wider. The sheriff stood there for a moment as if awaiting invitation to come in and when none came he entered anyway, doffing his hat and holding it before him in both hands. McEvoy closed the door and the sheriff turned to look at him.

Looks like you didn't get much sleep, he said. McEvoy nodded and walked over to the coffee table where he bent and picked up his cigarettes and his Zippo. He thumbed it alight and lit a cigarette. He turned back and looked at the sheriff who was looking about the place with the air of one come to deliver bad news.

I didn't, McEvoy said. Want some coffee?

Thanks but no thanks, the sheriff said. His voice was soft but firm, like the soughing of surf against rocks. I'm real sorry to barge in on you like this, but I had no other choice.

McEvoy smoked in silence.

He studied the sheriff's face closer. His hard, lined face was soft and somehow gentle, a stoic calm he didn't know what to make of. What are you doin here, Sheriff?

Did you hear the gunshot this mornin?

Well yes, McEvoy said with a nod. I reckon it was a twelve gauge.

That it was.

McEvoy led the sheriff over into the kitchen where there was a small table with four chairs. Schuler set his hat on the table and sat down. He looked at the crushed cans littering the floor and the empty bottle of whiskey which stood next to the coffeepot. He looked back at McEvoy, who had followed his gaze.

I ain't drunk if that's what you're thinking, he said.

Never said you was.

I know it.

How much did you drink last night?

Half.

We talked about this, Bob.

I know.

You know I can't have you working for this county drunk.

I know it.

Did you at least water it down with coffee?

What do you think?

You don't want to know what I think.

Yeah.

Yeah what?

Yeah, I watered it down. McEvoy smiled over at the sheriff, although this was not a moment that warranted a smile. It had been the drinking that had almost cost him his job and would certainly do so again.

Well, Schuler said. He stood up and walked over to the counter. He picked up the empty bottle and sniffed it and shook his head disgustedly. He tossed the bottle into one of the cowled bags of garbage which lay on the floor. Then he sat back down.

What happened? McEvoy asked.

It was the Campbell boys, the sheriff told him. They was out huntin.

McEvoy nodded silently. Schuler was looking out the window at the sky, a born casuist. After a while he leaned back in his chair and regarded McEvoy who looked back at him waiting.

Gary shot once, the sheriff said after a moment. Hit Jake in the stomach at point blank range.

Oh shit. Is he dead?

Not yet. He's out there now bleedin everywhere but in his body.

Is there an ambulance out there?

Schuler coughed into his hand. They's two paramedics out there but Jake won't go with em.

McEvoy felt a sudden leporine fear spring in his belly but his face was wooden. Daphne. Does she know?

Schuler shook his head. I ain't told her yet, he said. He looked down at his hands which were clasped before him. Gary's down at the station now. I'm goin to go over and tell Daphne before I go back and take Gary's statement.

It must of been an accident, Guy, McEvoy said. Do you think Gary meant to shoot his own brother?

No. It was an accident, all right. He shook his head. But I still need to take his statement. It's protocol, you know.

So what do ye want me to do? McEvoy asked.

Go out there. Sit with Jake.

McEvoy stared at him. Christ, he said. I can't do that, Guy.

The hell you can't. Last time I checked, you was still my deputy.

McEvoy didn't say if he was or wasn't. He sat there woodenly. He looked out at the window where the sun burned a malefic white against the iron sky which seemed to be vapored across the heavens. He thought of Jake Campbell lying in a furrow of some distant cornfield and dying beneath this fired sky and he shuddered. He turned when he realized Schuler had spoken.

What?

I said he asked for you.

III

The road was long and serpentine and clotted with snow as McEvoy drove his battered Dodge pickup through the rippling flurries which even now glittered in the dappled sunlight. He was leaning forward against the wheel watching the road as snow white as talc dusted the hood. The road was not paved and as such was patchy with dead weeds and it snaked into the pines shrouding the land. He drove carefully for miles without seeing another vehicle, nor any sign of life. It was as though man all had gone and took with them the world.

At length he hove into view of Gary Campbell's jeep with the canvas top and he saw it was parked aslant just off the road. The nose of it was buried in the roadside ditch out of sight. McEvoy edged his truck behind the jeep and throttled the ignition. He left the keys dangling there and climbed out into the blistering cold of the day. The snow was hard and packed beneath his boots and it crunched loudly where he tread. The wind was blowing up a gale now and kicking up swirls of ice and sleet coalesce. McEvoy buttoned his coat up to his throat and stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets and walked into the cedars.

He walked on through the snow and over deadfalls coffined in snow. At last he came upon a figure lying on its back in the cold white, amidst the furrows where in warmer days corn inhabited.

He saw that Jake lay in a melting swill of reddened snow which frothed as he breathed shallowly, eyes looking up to the metaled heavens. McEvoy saw his hands were pressed against his belly as though he were suffering severe indigestion. Then he saw blue loops of intestine ringed between his bloodened fingers and realized he was holding his guts in lest they seep out through the monstrous hole in what remained of his back.

McEvoy walked onward, careful not to make a sound as he shouldered his way through broken limbs and rotted logs. He did not wish to startle the dying man and frighten him any more than he already was. He was perhaps twenty yards away from Jake's body and he stopped in his tracks. He stared. Jake bled. How much blood now laked about him to soak into the hard vaulted earth beneath him? A feeling of dread clenched the pit of McEvoy's belly and he had to struggle to step forward.

The dying man had not heard his peculiar visitor arrive in the woods, and if it weren't for the bluetick who began baying at this intruder, McEvoy could have turned and left as if he had never been here. Perhaps it would have been the best. It would all be like a bad dream from which he'd soon wake.

He stepped closer down the shale bluffs amidst the trees and then paused. Jake rolled his eyes like a maddened horse until he saw who it was. He stared at McEvoy grimly and dementedly as his bloody hands continued to press down on the welling wound. He lay this way until McEvoy started back down toward him.

McEvoy saw the two paramedics huddled like gargoyles around the dying boy, bundled in their fleecelined jackets against the hard cold. They saw McEvoy and both of them stepped back to give the two men some room. They looked down at Jake as though unsure whether to leave him in the snow.

Go on, McEvoy told them with some reluctance, regarding them balefully until they nodded and walked over to an enormous poplar nearby.

That you, Bob?

Yeah, McEvoy piped. Yeah, Jake, it's me. How goes it?

I'm dying, old buddy, Jake gasped, turning away toward the hill. Look at me. I'm fallin apart. It's pretty bad. I can feel it. I'm goin to die.

It ain't that bad.

The hell it ain't. I cain't see nothin but my own blood all over the place.

All of this held no reality for McEvoy and he soon came to realize it with dawning horror. This boy was dying and it might well be real for him, but for him it was nothing. The blood running slowly from the caved hole in his belly whenever he breathed held no reality for him and that was all. He was starting to blink uncontrollably, he knew it, and his back was crawling as though something inimical inhabited there. Can you move any?

The mutilated Campbell boy pushed himself up with his elbows but then his eyes went wide and rolling and he let loose with a shriek, thin and shrill and somehow insane, and he fell back into the red snow with tears rolling down his cheeks in wide tracks. The paramedics started to run to them but McEvoy waved them away. They knew as well as he did there was nothing more to be done for the poor man lying gutshot before them. Hellfire, he muttered under his breath. Hellfire. Let me see it.

Jake lay breathing, pushing fresh blood from his belly. He turned his head away and gingerly moved his hands back from the wound allowing McEvoy to get a better view. His bloodstained fingers jittered and flexed of their own accord, and McEvoy felt his stomach heave and knot when he saw the blueveined viscera flapping in the bitter wind. He bit his lip to stop its trembling and Jake put his hands back over the wound. It looked as though he'd been pregnant with some unthinkable litter which had chewed its way through his belly and left him to die here.

How bad is it, Jake gasped. Don't lie to me, man. How bad?

McEvoy turned and spat to the side. It ain't that bad, Jake.

Bullshit. You're a bad liar and a shitty hand at poker. He grinned and McEvoy saw his teeth were streaked with blood. He closed his eyes and winced with great agony.

The bluetick that had heralded McEvoy's arrival was still howling and McEvoy looked up and saw it loping through the snow. Its ears were pricked and its head was cocked as though it heard the life bleeding out of its master's body. He looked back at Jake and saw his eyes were closed and his breathing was soft and shallow. McEvoy looked up to the sky and saw a flock of geese squadroning overhead in a tight V.

What happened to us, Jake said.

McEvoy looked down at him. Jake's eyes were open and he was looking at him with eyes wide and pleading. The world was dark and cold, cavelike. Nothing but the melodeonic howling of the dog and the shallow breathing of the dying man whose pained eyes bored deep into his soul.

What happened to us, man?

Daphne. He said it almost without realizing. Daphne's what happened to us. He looked around at this, a world in abeyance, and he nodded as though convincing himself it were true. Light from the sun dappled through the cedars onto the ground and on the men. Jake Campbell's world was winding down, and so it was.

Daphne. Jake closed his eyes again and said nothing for a while. He lay that way for a long time until McEvoy thought him dead but then he opened them again. She didn't leave because of you, Bob.

She didn't?

No. It was because of . . .

He turned his head toward him and his eyes sought out something McEvoy could not see. There was no name for what it was. Everything that is named is removed at once from itself. There is no nomenclature save that of what we give it. God has no name but the one we give him.

What.

Jake tried again. It was your drinkin, Bob. Always that.

McEvoy looked down at the blood spreading its claret fingers in the snow and saw little puffs of steam rising from the melt. He opened his mouth to speak but there was nothing to say so he closed it.

Go back to her.

What?

Go back to her. She still loves ye. Always did.

Okay. Just take it easy. Take it easy, Jake.

Go back to her.

I will.

Hold my hand, the dying boy croaked. I'm scared, Bob.

For a moment, a single second, McEvoy paused. Here lay before him the man who had taken his wife, to whom Daphne had sought refuge from the liquored demon she had married. The act of hesitating itself was not even conscious to him. Then he reached over and grasped Jake's hand. It was sticky with drying blood and yet he squeezed it twice. He slid his other arm under his shoulders and cradled him. He realized he was beginning to cry now, more because Daphne would take this news hard than because Jake was dying.

I got you, he said.

Oh my God, Jake cried. Oh my God.

He lay there in McEvoy's lap and he stopped breathing and his eyes did not go shut but they ceased to see. McEvoy looked down at the body he held close and turned back to the paramedics. They shuffled over dutifully and he crawled away, still weeping. He'd been helpless, could do nothing for Jake, could say nothing to give him comfort as he died. There was no such thing as life without bloodshed and he knew it well.



©2007 Stephen Davis.

[Steve]

IX

A waking in the night -- Silence -- Going downstairs --
Unworthy of a rifle -- Slipping away -- Saddles up --
Bart and Becky.

===============================================

Just at midnight Bart slipped down from his bunk, reached for his crutch of bone where it lay propped against his nightstand, before him the room black and depthless in the candleless night. He bent down with the crutch buttressed in his armpit and he felt around for his boot and he slipped it on one-handed.

He hobbled across the room, taking care not to trod on any loose floorboards. In the months following the amputation he had become quite adept at it, but his nerves and excitement filled him with a sense of anxious foreboding that he was sure he would wake his parents or Becky if he wasn't careful. He reached up on the wall where his felt slouch hat hung from a wooden knob bradded there.

Careful now, he whispered to himself.

He closed the door softly behind him. He stood for a moment as if awaiting a voice telling him to go back to bed and when none came he limped down the stairs, his heart thundering so hard in his chest it seemed it would burst from its ribbed cage if he didn't hurry it along.

When he reached the bottom step he looked around the darkened room for a minute. He squinted in the dark and then drew a candle from his trousers. He struck a match and lit the wick. He held it up carefully and then shambled over to the gunrack over on the far wall. Wax dribbled, hot and yellowsmelling, into the darkness and several times he almost burned himself.

When he reached the gunrack he ran his fingers over the rifles marshaled there. His fingers then closed around the stock of the pennsylvania rifle that his father had inherited from his own father. He drew it from the queue, then paused. He thought himself unworthy of holding such a weapon. Mayhap someday, but not now. He stood there in silence. Then he found a shorter 50 caliber rifle, a reliable weapon his father had taught him to shoot. He eased it from the rack and held it by the harnessleather. Then he shouldered it, aiming into the darkness. His cheek pressed against the cherrywood stock and he smiled. It felt good, it felt right. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and turned back to the rack. After a brief deliberation he took a powderhorn and a bullet pouch, both of which he draped over his shoulders like bandoliers. Then he turned back to look at the mirror on the wall behind him. All in all he looked like a pirate who had decided to try his hand at being a bandit and had forgotten that his missing leg was not a boon in such a quest.

A hot stream of wax burbled over his finger. He hissed and snuffed out the candle and shook his hand vigorously to cool it.

Damn it all. Damn it all.

With the sagging weight of the rifle and ammunition it was even slower going and he realized that if he tried to go out the door it would almost certainly be heard. Instead he walked lamely over to the front window and slid it open.

He slid the rifle out and propped the barrel on the sill, then he scooped up the horn and pouch and slipped out himself. He nearly lost his balance and had to grab the sill for purchase, and he landed heavily on the porch. He cursed silently and then closed the window, and he gathered the rifle and then hobbled over to the barn.

. . .

Now he was hurriedly throwing the saddle over the sorrel mare they called Rinthy, for she was the fastest of the three horses they kept here. He was cinching the strap tight against her belly when he sensed the presence behind him and he turned and saw the small figure vaguely outlined in the barn doorway.

There's a name for what you're doing, she said.

Go back to the house right now, Becky, Bart hissed to her.

It's called stealing.

I said go.

They stood looking at each other. Becky was watching him with a look of solemn judgment on her face as behind her soundless lightning whitened the sky to a pale metallic shade. A distant storm. After a while Bart turned back to what he was doing but he kept glancing back at his sister who was still standing there as though she'd always been there, and he felt his plans and schemes would all come crashing down just because she was staring at him in this falling dark, and now he must somehow placate her with an explanation.

I'm leavin now, he told her as he slipped the rifle into the bedroll tied on the sorrel's haunches.

Where are you going?

I'm off to catch Mr Boot and see if Captain Wilkins will take me along west.

Rinthy ain't your horse, Bart.

I know it, Bart said suddenly. I'll send money after my first season to pay for her and the gun.

You won't live that long, Becky said simply.

Oh? What makes you say that?

'Cause I heard you leaving your room sounding like an elephant. What makes you think you're gonna sneak away from a pack of bloodthirsty savages wanting to skin your hide?

Bart turned to her. He limped over to her, twice her size and weight but she did not move an inch. Instead she shook her head. Why would anyone take you on anyhow?

Why? Bart asked suspiciously. 'Cause I'm a cripple?

His sister opened her mouth to say something then closed it. Then she shook her head again. No. It ain't that. But you're too young to just go ridin around the country.

No I ain't. There's been men youngern me who've gone west to seek their fortunes.

And how many of them came back?

Bart raised a hand in farewell, dismissal, and took the first step away from his sister. Becky followed him.

And what do you want me to tell Mama and Papa? she asked.

Bart didn't say what she should or shouldn't tell them. He trudged on woodenly. He swung up on the horse and looked down at her. I'll see you again, he said, and then he touched his heels to the horse and was gone. He looked back once and no one had come to collect him, the whole scene fading into a stone night that seemed to consume all things and with them the weight of the known world.

[PedroPáramo]

Re: Through a Glass, Darkly

Steve, first of all, it's a short storie. A tale. You don't need to use so much dialogues (I think maybe you'll be happy of heard that ).
Then don't separate the tale on three parts, your writting is really fast, and you can use it.
Then the first part (first chapter if you want) is left over. You can use it like a flashback, but I don't like it like a beginning.
And I don't see why do you use that epigraph.
But anyway that's just my point of view.
Take care Steve, luck with the storie.

[Steve]

X

Raquel -- Seasons of age, seasons of beauty -- The task --
Returning to the hovel -- How came the degenerates --
Hiding out -- The foul leader -- Searching for the girl --
A view to a death -- The pursuit.

===============================================

Here now in the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun, where faint columns of sulfursmelling steam rise from the fumaroles lining the mouth of the caldera like the sockets of missing teeth. They coil in a great spire like dancers' veils in the edge before they vanish in the intense glare above.

In the harsh light of the day Raquel lies on her stomach on a shelf of limestone that overlooks the lip of the caldera, staring out across the deep bowl at the world. She is propped on her elbows watching the road through her heavy leathered glasses. This road is ashcolored and it snakes in and out of sight through the harsh red landscape below. An old bridge on concrete pylons crosses a dried creekbed and in the harsh light of day she can see the petrified timbers spiked and secured there.

She is fifteen years of age now and has blossomed fast this past season. Her face is still soft and clean with skin like porcelain despite the harsh desert sun. She is not a weak girl by any sense of the word, yet from a distance one would notice how thin she seemed in the loose clothes she wore. When the desert winds blew Abagail would often fear they would carry the girl away, so frail she seemed.

She had been up and about this day before good light. The day gave promise, and the remnants of a dream still swirling in his head touched it with portent.

She turned and began to clamber down out of the burning light, into the darkness, the cool shadow just beneath the overhang of the caldera. She slipped in beneath the narrow ledge. Straight ahead the volcano wall fell away precipitously, while to her right she saw a vaginal vent, just beyond a queerly rounded rock as though formed by claymakers. Even as she watched steam leaked out almost liquidly into the air.

She reached up, her hands gently holding the loose ball of shirts and trousers Abagail had sent her up here with. She brushed them apart and then picked one of them up gingerly by the collar. Then, using a pair of wooden tongs, she clipped the shirt and held it over the columning steam until the shirt began to darken and grow limp with weight. This she did for almost a minute before it was beginning to sop, and so she set it down on a dusted outcropping beside her so it could dry in the baking heat of the day. Then she continued with each article of clothing, steaming them in the caldera's fumes and then laying them down like shipwrecked survivors on the rock.

When she was done she straightened, letting out a long breath. She did not want to climb out of the lip and into the burning daylight. So she stood there, getting her breath and gathering the bundles. When she emerged from the shadow it was like stepping into the fifth circle of hell. It didnt matter how long she'd been living here because every time, that change from the cool of the shade to the sudden, choking heat of the desert was like a dazing blow.

She began climbing down the bluffs, stepping around the cracks where steam hissed in steady gouts. She was so focused on making sure she didnt drop her cargo that she didnt see the danger until she was almost upon it. It was only when she happened to glance down into the cleftwall that she saw it.

She let out a gasp but mercifully it was unheard in the furious hissing of the steam. She crouched down in terror, dropping the clothes into a loose pile at her feet as she ducked behind a vertebral ridge. But not before she saw them: shapes of eight or nine men, all armed.

Even at a brief glance, she knew what kind of men these were. The traders of before had been weathered by the desert but these men seemed to revel in it, in their baleful stance. Their beards were thick and braided, arms bound in muscle. The stink that billowed from them would be unimaginable. Their teeth were eroded and blackened and claggy with jerky.

Come out now, one of them said, and for a horrified moment Raquel thought that she had been spotted. Then she realized these waylayers were not speaking to her, and as she peeked over the spined rock, she saw it all.

Abagail was hobbling out of the stone hovel, trying to remain as expressionless as the dead. One of the waylayers held a shortbarreled shotgun and wore a bandolier of homeshot shells across his narrow shoulders and a murderous expression on his icy face.

Stop there, he grunted, holding the shotgun before him.

Abagail did as she was told and the leader of these grim degenerates gestured and two others climbed from their mounts. The first thing they did was step into the hovel with their pikes to search for any other residents. When they were certain the shack was empty they stepped out into the sun, waiting as the leader nudged his slatribbed horse forward with the shotgun socked into his elbow. He whistled through his gray teeth and Raquel saw the smile on his face and felt a sharp pang of fear in her belly.

The girl, he grunted, fingering his hide bandolier as his thin horse snorted.

What girl? Abagail asked.

Dont act dumb, one of the degenerates said. We's been watchin you for two days. We seen the girl.

Abagail started to say she did not know what they spoke of but she never did. One of the pikesmen stepped forward and drove the butt of his shaft against her lower back so hard it knocked the old woman to the ground. Raquel bit back a shriek of anguish and clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle it back. When she dared to peek back from around the back of the rock again, she saw Abagail was on her hands and knees, coughing as though she'd had the pest. In the harsh light of day the leader of the gang climbed off his horse and, shotgun in hand, marched past the old woman and into the hovel.

Keep an eye out for her, he called out from the shelter. She's round here someplace.

Raquel had no choice but to watch as the horsemen one by one spread out on their mounts, looking outward into the desert. The closest of them was less than ten paces away from Raquel, and when she stole a glance she saw that he seemed to be watching the area towards the smoking caldera with darkened curiosity. She stole another glance and saw the rider's horse spill out shit in dried clumps, right in front of her. She felt a sudden giddy feeling and nearly laughed.

She concentrated on keeping her head down, and she waited. Abagail had warned her not to come out too quick, in the event of such a raid. She spoke of caravans slaughtered in the great white wastes, and of waylayers who stayed back after the rest of them left, hoping to snatch women or children who eventually showed themselves after they thought they were out of danger. So she lay there, wanting to stop her ears but knowing she couldnt.

And then she heard the voice of the one who'd gone into the hovel, a surprisingly sweet tenor voice for such a despicable man. She realized instantly he was calling to her.

Come on out, girlie girl. There's nowhere to hide. If ye dont, I'll blow this old bitch's head off, I swear to ye.

He stepped out of the hovel with his shotgun slung over his shoulder in a casual manner. Now she could see him clearly, though in the harsh darkglare of the sun he could not. He had but three fingers on one hand, the one holding the shotgun. A branded felon who had chosen in life much as the world required of him. He was big and stronglooking and a scar furrowed his face where a knife had pried out an eye not long before. He wore dustcolored boots and his shirt was stinking black.

You wont find her, Abagail hissed at him.

The man did not speak but instead looped a booted foot into Abagail's midsection. The old woman shrieked and toppled backward into the red dust. A thin line of blood trickled from the side of her mouth but she did not cry. Instead she pushed herself back into a sitting position and glared at her captor defiantly.

Shoot me if you've a mind to, she spat.

As you wish, the man said, and he put the shotgun to her head and fired. A great hole erupted out of the side of Abagail's skull in a vast glut of blood and brains and she tumbled over into the dust with one leg kicking spasmodically until she lay still. The waylayer stepped back looking at the dead woman with mute regard. You was too old anyway, he said.

The rest of the degenerates were walking around the perimeter, their pikes and knives glinting lethally in the onyx sunshine. None of them looked at the dead woman. The leader bent down with the shotgun in hand and he drew a knife from his belt and carved a notch in the wooden butt of his weapon, which was scored with countless nicks already. Then he dipped a finger into the puddle of gore dusting the earth at his feet and smeared it on the forestock. He sat that way for a while until one of the waylayers called out to him.

Look yonder!

All turned to look where he pointed. The girl was running back up the lip of the caldera, keeping low and in between the great boulders. The world was winding down, and as the degenerate clan swept up their passables and gave chase they wound down with it.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: Archipelago Chapters XI and X

Good chapter Steve - glad to see another update on this story.

[Steve]

XI

The banks of the mighty Misery -- Saint Louis -- River landing --
The mercantile -- A familiar -- Man and youth -- Bart takes a drink --
Captain Wilkins -- Bart strikes a conversation --
An offer -- The captain on the nature of man --
A question of schooling -- The decision.

===============================================

When he rode out of the burned pine forest he saw it, a great curve of granitic glass, serpentine. At first he almost took it for the fabled western sea but he saw the thin line of shore on the other side and he understood it for what it was. He had been riding for a fortnight and he was cold and hungry. He had not risked stopping for more than a few hours a night lest he arrive in Saint Louis only to find the expedition had left off before he got there. Old dry leaves rattled frail and withered as old voices, trailed stiffly down like curling ancient parchments on which no message was at all inscribed. The sun was rising, darkening the eastern sky. His eyes kept flitting towards the great river spangled on the horizon. He fancied crocodiles with long snouts bristling with teeth, ancient relics survived unchanged from mesozoic fens. Beasts of a world always verging on ruin. He rode on down out of the chary wood and toward the great encampment on the near bank, the mare sucking at the thin ashy air, and just at noon he was riding into the town of Saint Louis.

He looked before him at the dust of the streets which swirled around the hooves and snuffling heads of the horses that trotted around him. It was by far the largest settlement the boy had seen in his life. This town had once been a trading post until twenty years or so ago, and now it was the bustling jumpoff point for adventurers, pirates, fugitives, and assorted miscreants. The boy rode through that fantasy of dust and blood toward the river landing which was little more than a limestone shelf that fell into the moiling brown river. The boy fancied an America long lost to memory, a great arsenal. On the riverfront he rode between dilapidated buildings shuttered and crusted with mildew, ironwrought rails. The streets were cobbled and cracked like they lay on the edge of some vast faultline. Twin tracks of mud parallaxed from the narrow alleyways, courtesy of wagons and barrows. The boy saw dram houses, gambling dens, outfitters, bordellos, mercantiles. He saw a man lying in the street in front of a gunmaker’s shop with one arm askew and a bottle in his hand.
The boy turned away from this grisly sight and looked toward the mercantile between the gunshop and a tavern. He saw a large figure stretched out in a lazy felinity on the roughboard steps, an unlit cigar stuck in his teeth. All about him there was bustle as great buckskinned men lugged wooden crates and heavy sacks into a waiting cart. His hair was still tangled and unkempt, the silver pendant still around his throat. He sat watching the men load the wagon with an amused air.

The boy reined the pony till it quit and he sat there atop it in the middle of the cobblestone street. Rinthy turned nervously below him, and the boy did his best to check her. He was tired, hungry, very dirty. What had seemed a grand adventure to him when he’d first left home had quickly become a relentless string of travails.

Mr Boot, sir?

The figure looked up at the boy on the horse who had called his name.

Dont you remember me?

He shrugged, looked away.

I was the one fixed your rifle, sir. Sharpened your knife for ye, too.

The boy slid down from his pony with one hand on the reins both for support and so as not to spook her. His foot came down on the flagged stone ground and the plainsman regarded it. Then he nodded and got to his feet with an affable grin on his bearded face.

Why God help me, he said. You the boy . . . you the smithy’s boy, aint you? Cooper, is it?

It is.

Why now, Boot said. What are ye doing out here in Saint Louie?

He took hold of Rinthy’s reins as the boy hauled his bonewood crutch from the bundle on the pony’s back and he leaned against it, hobbling over to the porch railing where they secured the lank filly to a tier. The boy heaved a sigh and rubbed the stump of his leg which pained him some in inclement weather.

You said Captain Wilkins was off to leave in the spring, he said.

I did and he is, Boot said.

Well, said the boy, looking around. I made it just in time, didnt I?

God amighty.

What, sir?

Boot shook his head. Good God amighty, he said.

The boy limped over to him, looked at the towering face of the man. Aint the captain looking for men?

Aye, Boot said. Plainsmen, not a cully like you.

I can pull my weight, the boy pleaded. Same as any man.

I wouldnt doubt but you could.

The boy nodded. So when do I get to meet the captain?

The plainsman turned his head and looked toward the man lying drunk and prone on the street. You dont understand, he said. There’s plainsmen a dime a dozen here in town. Seasoned men, experienced men. Riflemen, bowmen, knife fighters. They speak more languages than you can shake a stick at. They do things with gunpowder that make ye think they was gods. They can talk to the trees, the beasts in the earth. They can drink blood and piss whiskey and still shoot straight. And I mean no effrontery, boy, but they aint missing a leg.

He looked back at the boy and saw the tears of frustration and defeat brimming at his lids. He sighed, put a hand on the boy’s shoulder but he shook it off.

The captain says he’s only gonna ride with twenty, Boot told him. Of all the good men here, he’s only takin twenty. Twenty. There are gods among us, boy, and even he wont take em all.

He nodded as though that was the end of it and sat back down on the porch steps. The boy said nothing, only turned and walked across the street like a man in a dream from which he did not wish to wake.

. . .

It was dark when he entered the tavern. Several men were standing at the bar, which looked made of mahogany, that had been salvaged from the ancient world. The boy shambled across the sawdusted floor which groaned drunkenly beneath his weight, buckling and warping. He stood at the bar and took from his pocket a silver coin. The barman looked him over briefly, then nodded. What’s yer pleasure?

What do you got?

The barman eyed the coin before him and turned behind him. He came back with a smoky bottle which he set down in front of Bart. The boy thumbed the coin over to him and the barman poured a honey-colored liquid into a dusty tumbler. The boy held it to the glass where it gleamed like mica and then he knocked it back, looking at the barman thoughtfully.

I dont know what that shit is, he said. But I reckon it aint that bad. Let me have another here.

He set his glass down and the bartender refilled it. The boy turned back to the rest of the bar. Some looked at him, some licked their lips or spat. A dark whore stood on the landing, her breasts hanging half out as she languished there. The boy turned back to the barman.

You got a room I can stay in for the night?

The barman thrust his chin and looked up. If ye got any more of that coin I reckon I do, he said.

The boy pushed another coin across the counter. The barman took it with a swift move almost unseen and gestured to the upper landing and the boy went on up the stairs with his crutch tapping obscenely with each step.

. . .

When dawn came he traded his clothes with a drunken and bathless plainsman. The stupendous odor that came from the rags was almost overwhelming, but the youth delighted in the buckskin hunting jacket which was several sizes too big for him and the fringed leggings which he knotted over his missing extremity and the rough gray wool shirt which caused him to itch almost relentlessly. He left the plainsman half-nude in the tavern and he went out into the burned daylight.

He wandered about town asking for news of the captain and soon someone directed him to the river landing. When he got there he saw a shallop tiered to the wharf. It was a whiskey boat, and it stank of drink and men. There were casks stacked on almost every available space, a few horseskins blanketing them. Several men were milling about on the boat and dock carrying barrels and rifles and packs of ammunition and setting them in the hold. The boat rocked in the brown water but none seemed to care. There was a cabin near the stern and a cannon near the bow. There was a mast for a square sail and oar davits on both sides.

A man stood there watching the proceedings with his hands clasped behind his back like a preacher giving a sermon. There was an old bible clasped in one hand. He wore carved boots with tall heels and his hair was freshly trimmed.

He turned at the sound of the boy’s crutch which rapped smartly on the pier and regarded the youth in his misbegotten garb with a mixture of scorn and amusement. His moustache was thick and black but he was barely older than Bart. Can I help you?

Are you Captain Wilkins? the boy asked.

The very same, said the captain. Who are you?

Barton Cooper, sir.

The captain nodded. He looked the boy over. And what can I do for you today, Master Cooper?

Well sir, the boy said, to speak plain, I want to see the west.

See the west, the captain said.

Yessir.

We have our crew, son.

I see you got horses, sir.

Yes.

If a horse loses a shoe, I can fix it.

Is that so?

Yessir. I also know how to fix rifles. Ask Mr Boot.

I dont think that will be necessary.

I’m also a hunter, sir.

The captain squinted at him. What do you hunt?

Deer. Rabbits and squirrel, mostly.

The captain nodded. He looked at the shallop. Where are you from, son?

Indiana, sir.

Indiana.

Yessir.

I dont know of many plainsmen to come out of there. I suppose you dont, either.

No sir.

Ever kill a man?

Sir?

Have you ever killed a man? Anyone in Indiana just itching to cut your throat? Have you ever killed because you had to, not cause you wanted to?

The boy stood silent.

How did you come to lose that leg?

A wagon turned on me.

The captain looked at him. It’s rough country out there, son. Savage country. Lost friends and brothers out there. And by God I’m sure I’ll lose more as time goes on. Barbarians roam those lands. They dont have the least notion in God’s earth of honor or justice or the meaning of what it is to be american. Those savages wont shoot you. You know that? They’ll brain you in with rocks. They’ll cut your heads off while you beg for mercy. Does that strike your fancy?

No sir.

The captain leaned back and regarded the boy. You’re young. There are things here for you. A home, a life. Go home to Indiana.

The boy said nothing. The captain sighed. Son, what do you expect to get for wages in such a dark and troubled land?

Experience, sir.

How much schooling have you had?

Enough, the boy said.

Know your bible?

The boy nodded.

What are the first words?

In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.

Yes. Yes, he did.

The captain’s voice had become soft and thoughtful. He tipped his head back to look at the branded sky, but he needed no divine consulting for his decision. The boy stood there looking uneasy when the captain looked back.

Have you ciphered? Do you know about ciphering?

Well I know my letters. I’ve ciphered some. Yes. Why?

Do this. Come down in the morning if you still want to come and get on the boat.

Yessir. What time?

Daybreak.

Yessir. Daybreak.

Very good.

The boy nodded, flushed and enthused. Thank you, Captain. I wont let you down. I’ll see you in the morning.

The captain nodded, and the boy hobbled off into the crowd with a new spring in his step. The captain stood there on the dock as a burly figure bore his way over to him.

Does he look like a plainsman? Boot asked him.

The captain shook his head. No. He looks like a romantic.

[ManOfWesternesse]

Re: Archipelago

*peeps in*
no more? mmmmmmm?

*out*

[Steve]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first scene of a five-act play I'm writing for a scholarship here at Troy University. If it's good enough, I managed to convince members of the drama department to let me put it on next fall, if I can finish it by April 30th. I've written a majority of the first act, and I have the rest of the play outlined. The setting is the old west during the Mexican-American War from the point of view of two brothers who end up falling in with a gang of murderers and outlaws. I would like to hear responses and reviews as soon as possible. Thanks, and enjoy!

SCENE I

A dark woodland road in southern Alabama in November of 1836. It is midnight. At curtain rise there are two figures coming in stage right, carrying rifles and packs on their backs. They are brothers. The older of the two, a twenty-year-old man named GUY MCEVOY, stumbles and nearly falls. He looks down and sees he’s caught in some briars. He struggles to free himself, finally manages to do so.

GUY Get on with ye.

He winces and his brother, VIRGIL, spits to one side. Virgil is younger, maybe seventeen.

VIRGIL Shit.

GUY What?

VIRGIL Nothin. Just shit.

By and by they come in sight of a shack which sits mutely in the moonlight. Guy moves toward it with a sense of purpose, but Virgil hangs back as though he’s got second thoughts.

VIRGIL Guy. What we goin to tell Pa?

GUY Quiet. I’ll do the talkin.

VIRGIL He’s goin to pitch a fit when we tell him.

GUY He couldn’t of done a better job of it.

VIRGIL He won’t say that.

GUY She left is all.

VIRGIL He ain’t goin to like it.

GUY I know it.

VIRGIL So what are you goin to tell him?

Guy shakes his head and coughs into his hand. A bit loudly.

GUY Just keep quiet. More’n likely he’s drunk off his ass.

They head up to the brokendown porch. Guy stands there for a moment, then looks back at Virgil.

GUY Ain’t you coming?

VIRGIL I don’t know yet.

GUY Goddamn, get your ass out of the rain.

VIRGIL I don’t know. He might still be awake.

GUY Suit yourself.

Silence. The rain soughs through the trees. Guy steps into the old ramshackle house, grotesquely lit by the starless night. Virgil shakes his head and follows his brother inside. Silent, dark inside. There is a ragged sound, almost like crying, to their breathing as the boys creep carefully into the house. Guy hisses to his brother:

GUY Keep it down.

VIRGIL I’m trying. I just--

Then the silence is shattered by the roar of the shotgun and the brothers drop to the floor amid the clutter of furniture. The audience should be aghast at the shot. Guy shouts:

GUY Don’t shoot! Pa, don’t shoot!

A huge figure shambles drunkenly into view, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. This is WILLIAM MCEVOY, an abusive, bloodthirsty brute and also the boys’ father. He weighs over two hundred pounds and he goes toward them with the rolling gait of heavy people and sways slightly as he holds the shotgun.

MCEVOY You didn’t find her!

Guy shifts to the left and McEvoy fires again and Guy cries out as buckshot rips through his shoulder and throat. He grabs for the old rifle he dropped, clutching his bleeding wound and choking out--

GUY Goddamn it, man, put it down!

McEvoy lumbers forth and the audience should smell the tang of gunpowder and perhaps even the ripe stench of the man. He lurches forward in the darkness with the shotgun in hand.

MCEVOY Oh I’m goin to kill ye. I’m goin to kill ye graveyard dead.

Virgil cries out to his father, pleading to him.

VIRGIL We tried to find her, Pa! Really we did! I swear!

McEvoy roars like a wounded bear and fires toward Virgil, who ducks in the darkness. Guy grabs his rifle and sits up, blood pouring down his throat in the gloom. His slavering father sees him and jacks two shells in the chamber, wading forward toward him.

MCEVOY You’re dead, boy.

Guy lurches up with the rifle and his father steps back and fires a third time, missing. Guy points the rifle at him, and McEvoy growls at him.

MCEVOY Put that’n down, boy.

GUY You first.

They circle crabwise in the black, weapons pointed. Lightning flashes outside periodically, and we see McEvoy’s eyes are red and murderous.

MCEVOY Damn it, ye mind me now.

GUY Put it down, Pa. Listen to me. Put the gun down.

MCEVOY You best set that gun down fore I count to three.

GUY I’ll shoot ye, Pa. I don’t want to, but I will.

MCEVOY One.

A gunshot rings out. Guy falls back and McEvoy lurches forth, shot in the head. He drops the shotgun and stands there for a while, then collapses facedown to the floor and lies there, dead. Guy looks up and sees Virgil step out of the shadows, a derringer in his hand. He holds it uncertainly as smoke lilts about the barrel and he begins to weep.

VIRGIL Guy. I didn’t mean it. I . . . he . . .

Guy finds a candle in the darkness and lights it and holds it up to his injuries. They don’t seem to be too serious and he looks at his brother.

GUY You all right?

VIRGIL I ain’t hit. Guy, I didn’t want to do it.

GUY It ain’t your fault. Man was crazy, Virgil. It ain’t your fault.

Virgil looks at him with tears pouring down his face.

VIRGIL He was our pa.

GUY No he wasn’t. That wasn’t our pa. That was a crazyman. He’d of killed us and you know it.

VIRGIL I murdered him.

GUY You did what you had to.

VIRGIL What now?

GUY What?

VIRGIL I said what do we do now.

Guy sets the candle down and walks over and takes the pistol gently from him, the barrel still smoldering.

GUY We cain’t stay here. They ain’t nothin for us here now.

VIRGIL (Finally noticing Guy’s wounds) Oh my dear Jesus, Guy, you’re bleedin.

GUY It’s you and me now, you understand? We have to look out for each other, you understand?

Virgil nods. Lights go out except for one spotlighting the brothers standing around the body of their father.

GUY You want to say anything for him, now’s the time to say it.

Virgil doesn’t answer for a while. Then as the lights dim to black --

VIRGIL Ain’t nothin to say.

[The_Nameless]

Re: My First Play

So far, so good. I enjoy how you use period pieces.
Also how you start off your stories -with a conflict that we are unaware of.

Keep us posted.

[Steve]

Re: My First Play

Thank you, sirrah! I shall do so!

[Storyslinger]

Re: My First Play

I like it, very good

[Matt]

Re: My First Play

Just got a chance to read through, very good Steve--can't wait to read more.

[Sai Joshua]

Re: My First Play

Good story, but Troy University? Troy Sucks!!!!(Says the JSU man) Just kidding good story so far. I do like how you make these guys sound I know some folks that sound just like this bunch.

[Steve]

SCENE II


The narrator speaks as the scene slowly fades in from black.

Narrator Now come days of destiny, days of misery. The days following the death of their father the brothers ride through the rain and soon they arrive in New Orleans.

Early in the morning. The brothers have been on the road for days and now they wander into New Orleans as the sky grays with first daylight.

Virgil Looky there.

They look over as two whores sashay down the street giggling with prospects of the coming day. They see the brothers and Virgil whistles as they walk away.

Virgil What I wouldn’t give to ride em both to Abilene.

Guy Remember what Pa used to say. You cain’t ride two horses with one ass.

They laugh and as they walk on they run into a spanish boatswain in the plaza. He blinks at them, diphtheric, yellow-looking.

Guy Where in this town can a man get a drink?

Boatswain No te ves lo suficientemente mayor.

Guy I asked is there an inn about or what.

Boatswain Eres muy joven para andar tomando. Tanto tu como tu hermano.

Virgil (Miming a drink in his hand) Drink.

Boatswain Vete a casa.

Guy looked at his brother and then back at the boatswain. He shook his head.

Guy I know goddamn well there is an inn in this town. You was just there, wasn’t ye?

Boatswain (Pointing to stage left) Si insistes. Es tu funeral.

Guy You damned fool. (To Virgil) Come on.

The boys walk over to a bunkhouse saloon where a number of men stand around talking. Guy walks over to the bar and the barkeep nods to him.

Barkeep What can I get you boys.

Guy What all do ye got?

Barkeep (After a pause) How much ye got on ye?

Guy thrusts a coin across the counter. The barman takes it, inspects it, then bends down and pours two shots for the boys. The brothers take it and drink, and Virgil gags. There is laughter.

1st Man Boy cain’t hold his liquor.

Virgil The hell I cain’t. What all is this?

Barkeep Finest mule-piss in the city.

More laughter. Guy takes the bottle.

Guy We’ll take it over here.

They sit down at a table in the corner of the bar and Virgil takes out a pocketknife and starts carving in the tabletop.

Guy We ain’t got much money.

Virgil I know it.

Guy So you best drink up. This’n might be the last chance ye get for a while.

They drink for a while. Just then, a teamster walks in holding his hat.

Teamster Where in this pukehole can a man get a drink.

The barkeep pours him a drink and the Teamster drinks it.

Teamster Put her on my tab, Red.

He sets his glass down and he sees the brothers sitting at the table in the corner. He calls out to them.

Teamster Hey. You’s settin at my table.

Virgil Your table?

Teamster My table. Mine.

Virgil This ain’t your table.

Teamster Like hell it ain’t.

Virgil We was here first.

Guy (gets to his feet) Sorry. Go ahead, take it back.

He takes Virgil by the arm and leads him away as the Teamster sits down at the table.

Virgil Guy, what --

Guy (hissing) You want to get your fool self killed over a table?

They head to the door when the Teamster calls out to them.

Teamster Hey! (He flips the table over to reveal the scratchings) You been cuttin on my table!

Virgil I didn’t think . . .

Teamster Who said you could cut on my table?

Guy Now listen. He didn’t know it was your table. We don’t want no trouble.

Teamster Pay for it.

Guy (pauses) How’s that?

Teamster You’ns cut on my table. Now ye pay for it.

There is a silence in the bar. Everyone’s watching with avid interest.

Guy I ain’t payin for it.

Teamster Pay for it or I’m takin it out of your skinny ass.

Guy (Stepping back) I’m sorry about your table but I ain’t payin you for it. It ain’t yours.

The Teamster’s face clouds. Then he starts after them, unsheathing a great bowie-knife from his thigh.

Teamster You son of a bitch.

Guy sees the man coming and he kicks him in the throat. The fight breaks out. There is kicking, punching, clawing, shrieking. Virgil runs over and kicks the Teamster in the face. The Teamster roars and punches the boy back into a table. There is a commotion as the onlookers call out wagers and move out of the way. The Teamster begins effectively stomping a nature trail into Guy, then bends down and grabs him by the hair.
Guy grabs wildly and finds a bottle and breaks it over the man‘s head. The man screams, falls backward and is still. Coughing, Guy gets to his feet and draws his pistol. None of the onlookers moves. He looks over at Virgil.

Guy You better be okay over there.

Virgil gets to his feet as the barkeep looks at them.

Barkeep The law’s comin. You boys best get a move on.

Before they can get out, however, two deputies walk in with rifles pointed. The brothers are cornered. One of the deputies spits, points at the dead man on the ground.

1st deputy Hold it right there. (The brothers stop. He turns to the barkeep) Which one did it, Red?

Barkeep That tall one there.

He points at Guy. One of the deputies holds his rifle on Guy as the other goes over to the Teamster’s body. He kneels down and checks his pulse. He looks up at him.

2nd deputy He’s dead.

1st deputy (To Guy) All right, cowboy. You’re comin with us. (To 2nd deputy) Go ahead and take his gun, Jim.

The second deputy comes forward and takes Guy’s gun and holster from his belt. Then the first deputy jabs him forward with his rifle out the door.

1st deputy Go on, pardner.

Guy Wasn’t my doin. He started in on me. Me and my brother.

1st deputy (Spits) Well get to movin, then. Say goodbye to your brother. I don’t expect you’ll be seeing him for a while.

The second deputy cuffs his wrists and the three of them walk out of the saloon as the lights dim to black.

[Storyslinger]

Re: My First Play Scene 2

I like it

[Jean]

Re: My First Play Scene 2

is it possible to bolden, underline or in any other way separate who is speaking from their text? or is it a means of expression, again?