Killing the Blues Fic by Jay Babel

Killing the Blues – Robert Plant and Alison Kraut

It begins with a man in a flannel shirt, hat shielding his eyes from tree-dappled sunlight. He appears to be napping, listening to the ambience of rural Tennessee. He is resting by his white fence that stretches for seemingly endless acres. Cool breezes help keep him from baking in the sun, as do the multiple royal gold and crimson leaves that drift smoothly to the soft grass. The trees overlook the miles of green, standing by a dirt road that leads into town.

A figure hovers above him suddenly. The figure of a lovely young miss attempts to rouse him, but his stubbly chin stretches as he yawns and continues to rest, a smirk playing on his features. She pouts, her warm honey eyes playful and filled to the brim with mirth. Her chestnut brown hair flows smoothly in the gusts of wind, whipping around her neck and face.

Another figure perches over the man. He once again continues to smirk, and much to his surprise, a whinny and a missing hat are the response he receives. His horse, Chester, snatched the hat from his head and runs off in a merry jaunt. Curly brown hair exposed to the sun and blue eyes wide with surprise, the man and woman both laugh and chase after Chester in a stooge-like manner.

From then, we see the man and the woman dining beneath one of the trees darting around the fields. It is a regular extraordinary day, with puffy white clouds lazily floating by while dragonflies and distant jays try to race them.

The bees are sipping in nectar as well as the scene around them. Gently they land on the flowers, as if they were afraid to damage the fragile things. The wild flowers are tossed around by the wind and sway gently as the bees approach.

The man sets down a picnic blanket, a blue and white checkered cloth that appears to match his shirt. The woman is adorned in a white cotton dress that fits loosely and comfortably on her form. The smell of earth and grass and flowers soon intermingles with the intoxicating smell of homemade cookery.

The man opens the wicker lunch basket to reveal a jam jar, remnants of the jam sticking to his fingers as he removes the blackberry spread from the basket. The allure of such sweet smelling food has attracted a number of curious and hungry critters, who crawl close and take a bit of jam drops off of the couples’ hands.

The woman’s hand reaches inside to take a small, dried tin of okra from the basket. The man, eyes laden with excitement at the entire activity, removes some bread from the basket. It is still warm from the oven, wrapped like a babe and cradled in his arms. He sets it on the blanket carefully as the woman lays out the silverware.

That is when Chester busts on in, his leathery skin interrupts the tender pair and everyone, including Chester, erupts into laughter.

The scene transitions like ice to water. The man and woman are greeted by Chester, who is watching the man with a keen and loyal eye. The man explains to the horse about riding. Chester has seen others ride on his kind before, but he himself at the age of three had never been ridden. The woman stands by watching, half amused and half curious of the ordeal.

The man promises he would never put a saddle on the horse, as he thought it uncomfortable for Chester. The horse’s eyes, intelligent and trusting, briefly looks down in thought. Then he lowers himself to his knees.

The man is somewhat awestruck, but absolutely honored. The woman in turn is also flabbergasted, but she emanates immense pride towards her boys. And so, the man adjusts his hat and climbs up on Chester’s back. Chester staggers at the unfamiliar weight, but soon adjusts and takes off.

It now is pouring rain, and the trio have darted to the edges of the picket fence. Thunder rolls cinematically in the distance, echoing over hills and distant mountains. All of the friends are drenched by the downpour. Chester had been riding with the man for a solid two hours straight. The man had fallen from his horse several times now, his black t-shirt and straw hat now brown from mud kicked up while riding. But nevertheless, the three smile and play.

Eventually, all three walk back to the house in the rain as the blue evening skies begin to brighten as the pouring rain settles to a drizzle.

Life catches on, and Chester eventually passes away. It is on another warm fall day, where the air is as crisp as the falling leaves. A few float down to the headstone that glows brightly in the sunlight. The crickets sing and a couple, about ten years older than before, pay their respects to their friend.

The setting shifts to a stable, where a golden orange mare is birthing a small colt. The couple and three children comfort the ginger horse, cooing and petting her as she eases out her infant. A head pops out, and then two dark brown front legs, and following those are a torso and some back legs.

The foal, covered in mucus and ovulation and blood, stands on four flimsy little legs. He groans out an almost cheery huff and tries to tread around. The smallest of the children, around four or so, stumbles towards the foal and tries to play with it. Her infant tongue names him “Babbsy” in her attempt to say baby.

Years down the line, the young girl is now the age of nine and she can mount Babs and ride him with ease. The two are as close as kin, and her sixteen year old sister and fourteen year old brother gaze proudly at the sight. The couple watch with the same sense of joy from their porch as Babs and the girl prance along the fields.

Many years have passed, and a small graveyard has formed by the house. The sun shines through the gray clouds hanging in the sky. Patches of blue part the white and the steel colored puffs. There sits a girl and a boy. Down on the ground they examine the names. A big bold “BABS” sits proudly beside a headstone marked “Chester.” Beside that are the names of the old couple, their grave markers hugging each other as well as Chester as they all gaze up towards the puffy white clouds together.