Fading Luxury (WoE week 20)

After a brief hiatus, Write at the Merge is back again and so am I! With 500 or fewer words, we are challenged to create a story or part of a story that explores either or both of the provided topics. First: a quote:

"Are you really sure that a floor cannot also be a ceiling?" M.C. Escher

and then the photo:

photo by Keith Misner courtesy Unsplash

I love wood floors of all varieties. Each plank has a character all its own, perhaps a memory of the tree from which it is hewed. So that's the aspect of the challenge that I've decided to focus on this week.

Now, I want to return to characters I introduced here, although I will need to warn you there is a giant chunk missing from last time we saw them. Patience is still on the path to get her sister back, but this scene comes after her time with the Natives from the last scene. Jeb Grayson is preparing for a showdown against the Lassiers.

If you're new to the story line, and you would like to start at the beginning, follow the Label: Patience.


I offer the following in response: A Fading Luxury

Patience sucked a breath of private pleasure as her feet, unhindered by house-shoes, connected with the wooden floor. She couldn’t remember when last she walked barefoot across planks polished to a shine. Her trials took her all over the wild and uncivilized territories to rescue her sister, and Boston, once a part of her very blood, seemed a distant memory.

A wooden floor, creaking beneath her weight, was pure luxury.  She appreciated it even more than she did her cavalry hosts stationed at Fort Atherton.

A light rap sounded at the door, followed by Jeb’s graveled voice. “Boston, you awake, girl?”

Patience reached for her dressing gown and opened the door just enough to converse through.  “Mr. Grayson, you’re early. I am not yet presentable.”

He averted his eyes and removed the hat she had come to believe was permanently affixed to his head. Jeb appeared nervous, anxious, coaxing concern from the pit of her heart. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this and I’ve never been one to dance about a subject. I came to tell you goodbye.”

His words stung. She tasted bile in her throat and pulled the door inward. “Goodbye? I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

He ran his fingers around the brim of his hat. “Look, I promised to help you git yer sister back, but where we’ve gotta go next…where I gotta go and what I gotta do…a lady like yerself shouldn’t be any part of.”

His tone was so earnest. Panic seized her soul. “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Grayson. I’m coming with you.”

“Now the captain said yer welcome to stay here, or there’s a stage arrivin’ tomorrow that could take you home.”

“No, I can’t go. Not without Charity.”

Her protests ignored, Jeb continued. “Now if I succeed, Miss Charity and I will be back before long.”

“If you succeed. If?” Patience flung the door wide on its hinges and gripped her dressing gown tightly about her shoulders. “What do you mean if?”

“Whatjya think I meant?” he barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He took a breath and his tone softened. “Look Boston, I told you a hunnard times the Lassiers ain’t for messin' with. I kick that hornet nest and there’s a very real chance that the devil’ll be there to collect what I owe him.”

“I can help—“

“I don’t doubt that. I’ve seen you shoot. But we’ll be outnumbered thirty to one and there’s no use in gitting us both shot full of holes, or worse.” He finally met her gaze. “They take you, like they took yer sister? No. This is where we part ways. You stay safe, Boston.”

Jeb turned, leaving her alone at the doorway. “How could I ever be safe without you?” Patience whispered as he retreated, his silhouette dark against the rising sun. She held her breath until he cast a long look back from the fort gates. In one fearful beat, her porcelain heart shattered.

Some of the WoE crowd mentioned during the assessment that they aren't always sure when it's okay to leave criticism. I'll try to remember to be a better citizen and put a note at the end of my responses to the prompt, but if I don't, comments and constructive critiques are ALWAYS welcome here. Okay? Okay. so, let me have it. Give me what you've got. I can take it. 

Indian Summer (WoE week 38)

Write at the Merge gives a quote and a picture this week. First the quote:

August rain: the best of summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.  

Sylvia Plath

And next the picture:

Mason Jars by Rula Sibai via Unsplash

So, my thoughts went to the phrase Indian Summer, which always happened just as kids started up school in September. They'd have their new fall clothes born of east coast fashion and we'd be experiencing another Los Angeles heat wave. Sweat and tears and awkward school-year starts...Ah yes, the so-called Glory Days.

Not my glory days. 

I would like to bring you another installment of Patience's story. Jeb recently taught Patience how to shoot a firearm, a valuable lesson in the wild west, and they're on the move again.

I offer the following in response: Indian Summer 

 The dry wind carved a path through the canyon, casting wayward dust into Indian Territory. Patience missed the moisture long vacant from her eyes. She would cry for the sun scalding her cheeks, if she had any tears left to bargain with.

“Here.” Jeb held his canteen before her eyes. “But don’t git carried away. Few things’r worse than a flood after a drought.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson.” She tilted the canteen to her lips and sipped, mindful of his warning. “I thought moving to Brasher was difficult. This…wilderness…the miles of empty without passing a living soul. How can anyone live beyond the edge of civilization like this?”

Patience expected a retort as heated and dry as the weather. Instead, Jeb raised a hand and blocked the sun from his eyes. “This wilderness is far from empty, Boston. And since you missed it, we’ve been followed for the last three or four miles.”

He pointed to the canyon’s ridge and her heart froze as she caught a glimpse of an Indian melting into the trees. She reached for the rifle at her feet; her hand trembling of its own accord. “What do we do?”

“Do?” Jeb shrugged. “Nothing we can do, truth be told, so leave that rifle right where it is.”

“But…” She pulled back, confused. “I’m living life remember? I can’t save my sister if I get killed in an ambush by savages. So just tell me what to do.”

“Now, hold on. We ain’t exactly in the best of positions running this wagon through the canyon. They know it too.” Jeb clicked at the horses. “Since we ain’t already dead, I think we can assume they ain’t gonna kill us.”

“You think?” Patience watched the crest, looking for signs of an attack although unsure what those signs would be. Every movement of the shrub grass seemed to foretell her death. Her fear lodged in her throat.

She heard Jeb moan. “And damned am I for mentionin’ it.”

“Who are they?” Though she was a child, she remembered a tribe's removal march. “Cherokee?”

“The Cherokee are settled westways of here. Not much call for them stalking a solitary couple in a northbound wagon.” Seriousness overtook his features as his eyes shifted to the road before them. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

She followed his gaze. Before them, three Indians on horseback blocked their path where the canyon narrowed. There would be no avoiding them now. Patience struggled to breathe as her mind failed her. Her thoughts and fears swirled together in a violent storm, driving the blood from her heart to her cheeks. Her body began to go numb and shut down, starting with her toes. And then the canyon went black.

Her hearing returned before her vision did. A stream bubbled nearby and a damp cloth dabbed at her brow. Her eyes snapped open and she looked beyond the few painted, foreign faces at Jeb.

She caught his elusive smile before he turned away. 

A Bell Is A Cup (WoE week 28)

Write At The Merge this week challenged us with a photo of some artistic statuary from a park and the following quote:

"A Bell Is A Cup Until It Is Struck." - Colin Meloy

I went after the bell is a cup. Reminds me of "the hotter the fire, the stronger the steel".

I'm returning to Patience and her quest to rescue her youngest sister Charity from the clutches of the Lassiers. Jeb Grayson aims to teach Patience a much needed lesson about survival in the west.


I offer the following in response: A Lesson


 

“Y’ever fire one of these before, girl?” Jeb held a rifle out, his look hard to read.

Patience shook her head as he placed it in her hands. The weight of the rifle took her by surprise, and the weight of its power took her by the heart. Did she really believe that she could get her sister back without firing one? She swallowed hard, feeling unsteady. “I’ve never had much need to, back in Boston.”

She prepared for a cutting retort. And you think that place is civilized, or Figures were two possibilities that floated through her mind. He said neither. “Well, now’s a good time as any to learn,” he touched her elbow, positioning her arms with gentile force. “Tuck the stock against yer shoulder…”

Her palms sweaty, she lowered the rifle. “I don’t know…Couldn’t I just…”

His sigh carried more weight than the rifle in her hands. “Look, girl, there’s somethin’ y’need to understand about this little excursion.” His eyes darkened. “Now I tol’ you when you tried stealin’ my horse that the Lassiers ain’t for messin’ with. Make no mistake, that twisted family’s got the devil in their veins.”

Patience thought of her sister and tears fell from her eyes like a flash flood.

He paused. “You wanna know why no one back in Brasher was keen to help you get yer sister back? They’re relieved it wasn’t their sister that got took. Understand? When the Lassiers take somethin’, ain’t no one ever gonna see ‘em again.”

“You’re saying Charity’s dead?” Patience whispered.

“No, I’m sayin’ Charity’s gone. Brasher townsfolk tried to tell ya to let ‘er stay that way.”

“I can’t just let her go like that!” It hurt. Her throat cut off her air while her lungs waged war to breathe. “She’s my baby sister. She was my responsibility while my parents were at the fort…”

“That’s it, girl. That’s the fire I need you to have.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Y’had the stomach to git this far when all o’ Brasher cowered in their homes. But I’m tellin’ ya, this is gonna take more out of ya, a lot more. It’s not just the Lassiers. We gotta cross more open wilderness before we git there. There’s grizzly and wolves and rattlers, and ain’t none of them critters gonna be happy we’re there. An iffn we come across someone that don’t wanna be found, and iffn they decide they want a woman-“

“You can’t mean-”

“Girl, the West is good for two kind o’ people, them livin’ life, and them escapin’ life. Y’can’t predict what them escapin’ life are capable of.”

“What kind are you?” Patience asked.

He spit. “Most days, I’m livin’. The real question is: what kind are you?”

She tucked the rifle against her shoulder and focused through the sight to the split-log a few yards out and squeezed the trigger.

Over the ringing in her ears she heard Jeb say, “I guess yer livin’.”

Flatwater Departure (WoE #10 Dr. Seuss Challenge)

Write at the Merge gave us a Lorax quote:

“I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”
Dr. Seuss, from The Lorax

 and another from Yertle the Turtle:

"Oh marvelous me. I am the King of all that I see!"

 also of Dr. Seuss fame, in honor of his birthday: March 2.

Dr. Seuss, or Theodore Seuss Geisel published 46 children's books, but had no children of his own. When asked about that, he was quoted having said "you have them, I'll entertain them." He certainly had a genius's ability to convert current events into anapestic, amphibrachic, and trochaic tetrameter poems, colored heavily with his own moral code. I can't say that I agree with all of his political stances or that I condone his outspoken personal prejudices, but I can say that I am still a fan, looking for the arms race in the Butter Wars and fascist dictators in Yertle the Turtle. Who says adults can't enjoy the subversive text while kids enjoy the silliness of his invented worlds? I dare anyone to find an author who is more dedicated to his craft than Theodore Seuss (pronounced Zoice not Sewce) Geisel was to his.

As for the prompt, I took so long to post my response because I couldn't settle on one story. I have an installment plotted for every one of my characters you've met on my blog, and a few for characters you haven't met here. It's been a while since I was that inspired, when I had a thousand pictures in my mind to write about. I've written close to 5k in words in the last two days, advancing several plot lines in slim margins.

But per the rules, like in the "Highlander", there can be only one.

I've decided that the most complete storyline is the one to post. The winner brings us back to Patience Bannon and her quest to rescue her baby sister. Jeb and she are just about to leave from their overnight stay in Flatwater Bend.

I offer the following in response: Flatwater Departure

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gilroy,” Patience smiled.

Forrest Gilroy kissed her hand, manners that the savage west seemed to have abandoned. He was a bright rose among thorns, with his silk waistcoat and silver buttons shining in the early morning light, and a welcome sight for Patience. His voice carried the distant memory of her Boston as his once-common east-coast accent tickled her ears. She drank his words, giddy. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Bannon.”

Jeb sauntered from the mercantile, the shop-keep’s boy in tow loaded down with their purchased supplies. Patience felt him bristle across the dusty space. “Let’s git a-goin’, Girl,” he interrupted, irritation saturating his tone.

She sighed, broken-hearted. She wanted to ask her new acquaintance about the coast, to reminisce with gentile aristocracy again. Did he ever skate on Jamaica Pond in the winter? Had he ever dined with the Bacons or the Amorys? The settlers here were hardened, base people, with little by way of pleasantries or civilized associations. “My guide is eager to press on. I must beg my leave.”

“Safe travels, Miss Bannon,” his words trailed behind her.

The shop-keep’s boy provisioned their wagon, and departed the livery without speaking while Jeb cinched the tack buckles for his horse. “I should have liked to speak a while longer with Mr. Gilroy,” Patience mused aloud as she climbed onto the driver’s bench. “He might have news from the east.”

Jeb snorted, tethering his horse to the wagon. “I highly doubt that, Girl.”

Of course Mr. Grayson wouldn’t have anything polite to say. “Oh, and what would you know of Mr. Gilroy?”

“I’ve little use for dandies,” he retorted, settling in beside her and taking the reins. With tongue clicks and a snap of the leather, the wagon jolted forward. “Gilroy ain’t got no need bein’ out here. He don’t have the sense God gave a turtle and he flashes his coin like it’s worth somethin’.”

“He comes from civilized society. I would not expect you to understand.”

He shot her a dark look that sent a chill through her spine. “Now I suppose you’re right, Girl. What would I know? I’m justa savage as like to piss on the floor than use a pot.”

Shamed, Patience tried to take her comment back, “I didn’t mean-“

“Didn’t you? You’ve been turnin’ your nose up at everyone since you moved to Brasher, like you’re a queen or somethin'. That attitude might work in Boston, but out here it’s only gonna git you dead.” He spit, then his tone softened. “Hell, you’ll probably git us both dead.”

The wagon jostled them over the rocky path. “What do you know of Mr. Gilroy?” she whispered.

“He uses cocaine and cuts up whores that refuse him service.”

She felt ill. “I wouldn’t have known.”

“The Pottawattamies say listen to the trees before you test the bark,” He adjusted the reins. “In other words, don't be fooled by a devil in a fancy suit.”

Flatwater Sundown (WoE #7: Scent/Elixir Challenge)

Write at the Merge this week asks to merge a scent with an elixir.

The word "elixir" conjures to mind tales of the traveling medicine shows sensationalized in westerns. Snake Oil, genuine Indian remedies, and the like promised to cure every ailment and contained toxic ingredients like opium, cocaine, and ethyl alcohol. Shills were planted in the crowds ready to give "unbiased" testimony and display "miraculous" feats of strength and speed in order to help the salesman generate more sales.

I'd like to return to a character I haven't seen in awhile. We last saw Patience after she learned the Lassiers kidnapped her sister. She just hired Jeb Grayson against her better judgment to help get Charity back.

I offer the following in response: Flatwater at Sundown

They arrived at Flatwater Bend just before sundown. With the dark of night looming in the unfamiliar town, Patience questioned her sanity. What did she know about chasing outlaws and brigands? She hesitated before dismounting her wagon at the livery, investigating the impatient grimace on her companion’s face. What did she know of Mr. Jebediah Grayson?

“C’mon, Girl,” he bellowed, gripping her elbow roughly. “Flatwater ain’t much by way of accommodations, and Miss Louisa’s Boardin’ House won’t be open after dusk.”

She yanked her arm back from his grasp. “I can walk, Mr. Grayson. You will remember I am spoken for, and you will not take such liberties with my person again.”

“Liberties? Oh that’s rich.” His snorting laugh was condescending. “Does Nate Pritchard know he spoke for you?”

Anger burned her cheeks as she prayed for an inspired retort. She felt unarmed against the cad since she stole his horse. “That is none of your business, Mr. Grayson.”

 

“Thought as much.”

She matched his stride, fighting the urge to scratch the smugness from his face. Flatwater Bend wasn’t a large town; most of its businesses straddled a small stretch of dirt that served as a road. Patience missed the cobblestones of her native Boston, its elegant architecture and early morning fog heavy with the clean scent of seawater. The fog in this frontier was less heavenly, and reeked of manure and musk.

Outside Miss Louisa’s Room and Board, a crowd of about twenty people gathered around a flash-dressed wagon advertising Dr. Addison’s Genuine Elixir in gilt letters. “You there, gentle lady, come here and listen. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed!” an older man gestured at her from his makeshift stage. “This is the bona fide article. It’ll cure all your complaints.”

Patience scowled. Her father always said if anything was too good to be true, then generally it was. “Swills and shills,” she heard her companion mutter. “I can get better whiskey from the cathouse.”

“Cretin! Have you no morals, Sir?” she reprimanded.

“Oh git down off your high horse already, Girl. I’m here to help you git your sister back, ain’t I?” He steered her towards the worn front door of the boarding house.

“I suppose that five hundred dollars you want has nothing to do with it.” Patience rapped twice at the door and smoothed the front panel of her skirt.

“God’s teeth, Girl, it’s a boardin' house, not a social call.” He opened the door without invitation and pushed her inside.

She wheeled to strike him but he ducked.

A woman of many curves addressed them in the warmth of the lobby. “Seeking one bed, or two?”

“Just the one, Ma’am.” He added before Patience could protest, “For the girl. I’ll be taking up my room at the saloon.”

“She’ll be in fine hands, Mr. Grayson, don’t you fret.”

“Thank you kindly Miss Louisa.”

His shadow disappeared from the doorway as he abandoned her to the boarding house. Patience was alone.

Write On Edge: Antihero Challenge

I love a good antihero. Flawed, unscrupulous characters in it for their own glories add spice to just about any story. My favorite antihero? Han Solo (from Episode IV, back when he shot Greedo first).

This weeks Write on Edge Red Writing Hood  Challenge is a generous 500 words (Thank you Cameron) to show an antihero in a character sketch or scene. I thought about some characters I developed last year, and decided to throw the protagonist into a terrifying situation.


I offer the following in response: Trouble in Brasher

 

The wake of the showdown left the small town of Brasher dazed and disheveled. Patience became aware of a knot forming just above her hairline. “Ow.”

Nathaniel offered a hand up, “Are you injured?”

It hurt to smile, but she did anyway, for him. “I’ve a bit of a lump,” her words tumbled out. “Why are you in the store? Is there something wrong at the forge?”

He frowned, his forehead creasing deeply, “We’re in the smithy, Miss Patience. You and your sister were kind enough to bring me some lunch.”

She felt her checks warm with embarrassment. “Of course, Mr. Pritchard,” she said quickly. “I feel…Where’s Charity?”

He averted his gaze. “They took her.”

She didn’t hear him, not those words. She begged him, terrified. “Mr. Pritchard, please don’t tease. Did she return to the store?”

“Nate, my horse ready yet?” a grizzled voice interrupted them. She spun about, faster than her head wanted her to. He was tall, his features dark and plagued with shadows beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

Nathaniel, her shining knight, stepped up to the stranger and bristled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Jeb, the Lassiers just kidnapped a girl…”

She caught a glint in his eyes that turned her blood to ice. “Not my concern,” Jeb said coldly. “Is my horse shod or not?”

Nathaniel threw up his hands. “Yes, Jee-uh yes. It’s in the corral.”

With her parents off to the fort for supplies, Patience felt responsible. She couldn’t think straight. The decision to run was made before it even entered her thoughts. She bolted for the corral and vaulted over the fence. Grabbing the reins of a saddled horse, she threw herself upon its back.

“Whoa, you stealin’ my horse?” Jeb yelled, appearing out of nowhere.

She paid him no heed and dug her heals into the horse’s sides, pointing it towards the road out of town. Alarmed pedestrians barely got out the way as she galloped by. Panic gripped her throat and drove her blindly on, her helpless, sweetest sister her only thought. She didn’t notice when she first was lost and she didn’t notice Devil’s Ravine looming before her.

It was strong, duster-sleeved arms that tackled her from a horse inches before she galloped over the edge. “You’re crazy. I git that. Whydju steal my horse?”

She saw his face for the first time through a watery veil of tears. Throwing her arms around him, she sobbed into his shoulder. “They’ve got my baby sister!”

 “Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute,” Jeb barked, shoving her away. “Do you even know where you’re going? Lassiers ain’t for messin’ with. Go home girl.”

“No!” she pushed him back.

“Fine! Gitjur head blowed off.” His eyes went cold again. “You ain’t my concern.”

“I’ll pay you,” she uttered deperately.

“What?”

“Nathaniel said you were fearless, an Indian killer,” she begged him.

Derision lost to determination in his expression. “Five hundred dollars,” he said finally. “Now gimme back my horse.”

Write On Edge: Hair Challenge

With another NaNoWriMo remanded to the "desperately needs true focus and severe editing" pile, I'm happily back to my regular routine, on to other projects, and looking forward to the upcoming holidays. In feeding my unhealthy addiction to writing prompts, I'm back haunting the Write On Edge site and eager for the next challenge. This week cheryl in Red Writing Hood gives us 300 words using hair as the vehicle to reveal something about a character or situation. I decided to revisit Patience and her sisters from the Write On Edge: Road Trip challenge.



I offer the following: A Hair for a Hair

Patience slipped out of her bed once she heard Bertha’s soft, wheezing snore, indicative of her deep slumber. She wrapped her dressing gown about her to fend off the chill as her feet located her house-shoes by feel. For a long moment, she pondered the consequences. Could she risk her mother’s ineffectual pleas to let her daughter be, that sibling rivalry was healthy and natural as her father reached for the switch? She sucked in an icy blast of air to steady her nerves and reached for the hammer and nails she had concealed behind the nightstand.

She crept across the small space, afraid to make a sound. While Bertha had always slept like the dead, her youngest sister Charity woke at the subtlest of disturbances. She froze at each squeaky floorboard, holding her breath. Once sure the danger was passed, she moved into position, hovering over Bertha’s head. Her long plait of molasses brown hair draped conveniently over her pillow, begging to be nailed to the headboard. A hair for a hair, she thought righteously. Gently, she pushed a nail through the braid and positioned it against the headboard, wondering how to muffle the sound of the hammer.

Charity’s sleepy whisper made her jump, “Patience, don’t.”

Her need for vengeance still boiling within her blood, she hissed, “She deserves it after that stunt in school.”

Charity sat up, “She’s jealous you know. You have the perfect flaxen hair, and spiral curls keep without fuss. She feels plain next to you.”

“She dipped my hair in the inkwell,” she answered, not ready to let her anger go.

“And she got the switch for it after the dunce cap in class. Surely that’s humiliating enough,” she pleaded.

Her hand, poised to strike, trembled from the weight of the hammer.

Write On Edge: Road Trip Challenge

In the Write On Edge Red Writing Hood challenge this week, angela gives us 300 words to tell the tale of a road trip.

The phrase "road trip" can conjure several memories for a person. Remember the time we crossed the States just to see a band perform in Chicago? Or when Cousin June went to Washington, DC to give a senator a piece of her mind, only to get lost in Detroit? As it is with most journeys, the destination isn't necessarily as important as the experience.

For this challenge, I wanted to break away from the idea that only automobiles can go on a road trip or the roads themselves must be paved with asphalt. I give you one of many dark moments from the history books.

A Trail of Many Sorrows

The wind, thick with the tell-tale scent of snow, rattled the trees at the edge of the muddy road. Patience shivered despite her cocoon of coverlets as she huddled with her sisters in the cramped space at the back of the schooner. I can walk faster than these oxen can pull this wagon, she thought indignantly, hating her father for forcing their move from Boston, and her beloved Johnny.

The wagon pitched unpredictably, making it difficult to sit still. Patience shifted again to a more comfortable position, only to become dislodged moments later. “Ow,” the middle sister cried. “You hit me.”

“S-Sorry Bertha,” she replied through chattering teeth.

Charity, usually silent, hushed them unexpectedly. “Listen,” she said, leaning forward to see around the canvas. “Do you hear that?”

Patience joined her, eyes and ears straining, Countless voices haunted the air with a familiar hymn. Through the trees she spied men, women, and children, treading defenseless against the bitter cold. Union soldiers with rifles drove them like cattle to the slaughter. “Mr. Jeremiah,” she turned to their scout as he rode his own horse alongside their train, “Who are those poor souls?”

His grim look did not change, “Cherokee, Miss Patience. They’re being relocated to Indian Territory by executive order.”

She gulped as a soldier horsewhipped a boy into submission, “Surely there is a more Christian way of handling the situation.”

His response was slow to come. “Best you not think on them.” He urged his mount forward, ending their conversation.

She watched the Cherokee for a time, disquiet. Their lament tormented her soul, banishing Johnny and Boston from her selfish thoughts. They had even less choice than she, and still they sang. “God keep you strong,” she prayed, hoping it would help. The snow was on its way.