The four slid from town as the dawn sun turned the westward mountains into beacons. None had slept much, but they had rested more than the dry store owner who fixed their provisions and had them waiting. The man also buttered some bread for them to work over as they rode, in place of a proper breakfast. They left through the western side of town: Herman, then Samuel, then Abner, and finally Ottilie. As their misfortune had it, their path took them by the undertaker’s shop. The two men Ottilie had killed the day before were propped nearly upright in…
Leave a CommentCategory: Writing
Sometimes cross-tagged with other categories, here are things I have written for pleasure, from prose to poetry.
No, seriously – I’m writing a western. “So you really are brothers?” “We are,” Herman said. “When I’ve heard about you I’ve always wondered if it was just something you called yourselves. But real brothers. I like that. There’s nothing more important than family.” “We think so,” Herman said. “You both fought in the war?” “We did.” McAllister drank from his glass of water without taking his eyes off of them, back and forth. “I heard one of you is the chatty one.” Samuel chuffed. “That’s me,” his wide grin showing off fine teeth. “Those are the first words you’ve…
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Moving westward, the ridges have the look of a broken vase arranged by a broom, violet under the right light and steel under the wrong, casting north and south forever, each peak a tooth in the jaw slamming shut on those who pass through them from plains long forgotten.
2 CommentsPride paces slowly, his weight squarely between his hips on each step, the footfalls owning the quiet force of permanent confidence. He stalks, predatory. Perched in his right hand is a steaming Irish coffee. “Please, all I’m saying is, something has to happen. This isn’t who we are. This isn’t what we do. This is soft. Or perhaps this is what we are now?” “Enough of that. We’ve learned,” Empathy says. “Even if we could go back, do we want to? Every one of us has excused too much of it already. End the cycle.” “Pft. We already ended it.…
Leave a CommentPueblo wasn’t much to look at on approach, Herman always thought, and was less impressive upon closer inspection. It was much like every other ruddy speck in the territory, which meant comfort was a secondary or tertiary concern, though Pueblo was larger than most. All these towns were meant for miners and westbound travelers to get in, provision, and get out. Herman didn’t expect or need more than that, but it would have been nice to have a decent mattress every now and then. That’s what he rued the most about his decision to go west – he missed the…
Leave a CommentThis has seen several revisions, but this is the most recent. Cheers. I’m just a voice for now, and I try to be impartial, but this story gets me every time I tell it. How many times? I don’t know. But it’s about love, I swear to God it is, the brutal iniquities of the world, and the thousand little doubts and demons crawling around inside everyone. This is about what happened in the Strait those years ago, it being a shame so many people died. Let me tell you about Aloys and Sophie, poor Yair and Calloway, Leon…
Leave a CommentA lack of recent posts doesn’t mean there isn’t work in progress! I got a small run of demo versions of The Horse You Rode In On and these are being gone over by a few trusted people. Interested in joining this effort? Reach out! Also looking for tune inspirations, though I’ll get back on course with some of my own. Cheers, Andrew
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There are few straight lines; even the stop signs sit on bent posts, the result of DUIs, snow plows, eroded berms, and reckless youths. The mountains are rounded, the rivers wind, roads and town streets meander for reasons lost with old property records. The siding on houses, which one would expect to be bastions of straightness, sags and wobbles more than not, the colors faded to that of sidewalk chalk. Where the siding is gone you’ll find aspenite soaked by rain and sun and dulled to Soviet gray, individual wood flakes curling up like potato chips. There is no dry…
Leave a CommentSeven years ten months before The Strait of Taiwan Incident. The last time Calloway saw Sophie was in the library at Edinburgh, just off George Square, those years before. He rarely needed to go there; he wasn’t taking classes that would require referencing many books, nor was he teaching anything of the sort (or much at all, since his handlers had gotten him preferential treatment; he helped teach one class, twice a week). He spent time in the library because he liked the firm, industrious quiet. The place was a shrine to learned work, enlightenment, and the pursuit of…
Leave a CommentSo often people say marriage is work, but that often glosses over a simpler fact: if the calculus makes sense, bumps in the road aren’t that big of a deal. Context defines everything. You need to be honest with yourself and each other to acknowledge what the context is. Leon and his wife didn’t expect to overcome those little challenges when they got married, and Leon even threw a wooden shoe form through the large window of his storefront when he found out about his wife’s affair. His anger invariably faded, a dalliance wasn’t enough to kill the love itself.…
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