Wolfe In Sheep's Clothing Part 3

WOLFE
Johnathan is in a fragile place. Imagine a sleeping bull in a china shop. If the bull is plagued by nightmares, he might stampede in his sleep. This will also happen when someone wakes him. Right now, Johnathan is blinded by denial. I suggest some coping therapies and medication.
DETECTIVE WELSH
I suggest  we get more guns. But you know as well as I do that the Warden is as cheap as a back-alley Rolex. He talks like he  supports us, but we know where the money really goes. The boys have been saying that he wants to cut funding for your psychiatric facillity. Hopefully the case of your friend Johnathan convinces him otherwise. I would hate to see you lose your job.
WOLFE
If the warden had his way, I would be. But you’re right: I’m sure once he meets Johnathan in person next week, he’ll have a change of heart. Speaking of our mutual friend-
DETECTIVE WELSH huffs. WOLFE laughs lightly.
WOLFE
Well, my friend. Your acquaintance. First impressions can be forgiven.
DETECTIVE WELSH
Yeah, the impression of a spork in Reacher’s arm
WOLFE
Would you mind bringing Johnathan in? It’s time for our two o’ clock appointement.
DETECTIVE WELSH nods and exits. WOLFE gets up from his desk and opens the blinds. He takes a breath.
WOLFE
In the end, all will be well.
JOHNATHAN enters. WOLFE turns around to adress him with a smile. JOHNATHAN also smiles slightly.
WOLFE
Ah! Hello, Johnathan.
JOHNATHAN
Looking for UFOs, Doc? You haven’t been taking my prescription, have you?
WOLFE
Oh no, I’m not that crazy. I was just admiring the light.
JOHNATHAN
The light?
WOLFE
Yes. It illuminates everything with a celestial-like glow. The reflection of light in leaves, the presence of light in the grass blades, even the light living in your eyes.
JOHNATHAN
Uh-huh. Not crazy. Well, this isn’t a poetry reading, Doc, so why don’t we get started?
WOLFE chuckles and pats JOHNATHAN on the back and holds his hand out in the direction of the chair.
WOLFE
Of course. Why don’t we get started?
The pair sit down, WOLFE in his chair and JOHNATHAN in the patient’s chair.
WOLFE
How was your day, Johnathan?
JOHNATHAN
Well, let’s see. The canteen served fish tacos today, I was only threatened by five people, two of them cops, and I wasn’t shanked. All in all it seemed alright.
WOLFE
There’s something that you’re hiding from me. You know that you can trust me.
JOHNATHAN frowns. He looks at his hands, and then back up to WOLFE.
JOHNATHAN
I killed my wife’s murderer today.
WOLFE
See? Was that so difficult? Who was he?
JOHNATHAN
Officer Reacher. He didn’t even try to put on a facade. The straight second he looked at me, it was in disgust.
WOLFE
What did you do to him?
JOHNATHAN
I stabbed him in the chest and arm. Five times. With every strike, I felt more and more satisfaction.
WOLFE
What did you stab him with?
JOHNATHAN
A long pair of scissors. It was sharp as a razor. The guy must have been wearing body armor. He hardly bled at first.
WOLFE
Johnathan....
WOLFE pulls some scissors out of his desk.
WOLFE
What is this?
JOHNATHAN looks at the scissors queerly.
JOHNATHAN
A... A spork?
WOLFE grins.
WOLFE
Very good. We have much work to do, Johnathan.

Wolfe In Sheep's Clothing Part 2

                                WOLFE

If you don’t talk to me, I don’t have a job. And I’m not really qualified for anything else.

                                           

           JOHNATHAN

More like overqualified- But I bet you’d flip a mean burger.

                                                WOLFE

So what happened today?

                                           JOHNATHAN

I had the feeling we’d come back to that soon.

WOLFE gives JOHNATHAN a concerned look. JOHNATHAN inhales deeply and looks at WOLFE afterwhich JOHNATHAN quickly averts his eyes and studies the floor as he begins speaking.

                                            JOHNATHAN

DeSantos…He made comments about my wife today.

                                                WOLFE

What did he say?

                                             JOHNATHAN

It started with cell inspection. DeSantos was the officer assigned to search my cell today. There’s a picture I keep of my wife under my pillow. The pig snatches it and puts in is his pocket, saying that he’ll “save it for later.” He said that such a “fine piece of ass” didn’t deserve to be saddled with a screwball like me.

                                                WOLFE

Hmm. What did you do in response?

                                              JOHNATHAN

I warned him not to dehumanize my wife by reducing her to a sex object. He laughs in my face and wraps a hand around his baton. He dares me to try something. Unfortunately for him, I’m a risk-taker.

                                                WOLFE

And this is when…?

                                              JOHNATHAN

Yeah. That’s when I started choking the life out of that son of a bitch.

                                                WOLFE

That isn’t a healthy way of responding. He may have wronged you, but he is still a human being.

                                            JOHNATHAN

Yeah? Well I’ll probably get an extra twelve years added to my sentence, so I can care less about your morality.

                                               

WOLFE

I understand your frustration, especially since he exhibited such deviant behavior, but violence is never the answer.

                                           JOHNATHAN

Do you think I don’t know? Do you honestly think that after my wife and children were murdered that I wouldn’t fucking know that?! I don’t even know what the fuck I’m in here for, so maybe nearly killing that asshole might at least justify my being here!

In frustration, JOHNATHAN sweeps the objects on WOLFE’s desk onto the floor. JOHNATHAN is standing and panting heavily. WOLFE calmly looks at JOHNATHAN. JOHNATHAN, surprised by his own anger, sits down.

                                             JOHNATHAN

Jesus… I’m sorry Doc-

DETECTIVE WELSH, POLICEMAN 1 and POLICEMAN 2 burst through the door as JOHNATHAN lowers himself into the chair.

                                      DECTECTIVE WELSH

What’s going on?!

                                                WOLFE

It was nothing, Detective, just an outburst. You can return to your posts; I can handle it from here.

                                      DETECTIVE WELSH

I don’t think so, Dr. Wolfe. I know you trust your patients, but I don’t. And given his track record, you’re in no position to be defending him. That episode this with Officer DeSantos this morning should be enough to prove that. We should get him out of here.

                                         JOHNATHAN

The man’s right, Doc. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t really want to hurt anyone. I just want to understand what’s going on.

POLICEMAN 1 and POLICEMAN 2 look at JOHNATHAN somewhat confused, and then look to each other. DETECTIVE WELSH just frowns and holsters his gun.

                                        DETECTIVE WELSH

Alright boys. Let’s get him back to cell block C before curfew.

DETECTIVE WELSH and POLICEMAN 2 leave. POLICEMAN 1 lingers and looks to WOLFE.

                                         

                                                POLICEMAN 1

What did he mean that he didn’t understand what was going on?

                                               

WOLFE

Johnathan suffers from memory repression. You see, he believes that his wife and children were murdered.

                                         POLICEMAN 1

What? But… But wasn’t it-

                                                WOLFE

Johnathan who killed his wife? Yes, it was.

                                           POLICEMAN 1

Oh my God… D-Did he kill his kids too?

                                                WOLFE

No. Detective Welsh was in charge of the investigation regarding Johnathan. He found clues while I tried piecing together a motive based on evidence. Surveillance showed Johnathan’s wife and children were at a gas station on the twentieth of March last year. Johnathan’s children were hit by a car while their mother was purchasing gasoline.

                                             POLICEMAN 1

Jesus… But why would he kill his wife?

                                                WOLFE

It is my belief that Johnathan blamed his wife for their passing and killed her out of grief.

                                        DETECTIVE WELSH

Officer Brandon?

POLICEMAN 1 jumps at the sound of his/her name.

                                              POLICEMAN 1

Coming, sir!

WOLFE closes the door behind her and reclines in his chair. WOLFE picks up a pill bottle from the miscellaneous objects strewn on the floor. WOLFE chuckles softly and pockets the pill bottle.

Cue light fading                

As the lights come back on, we see DETECTIVE WELSH standing in the psychiatric office. WOLFE is at his desk, a book is in his hand, though he politely disregards it while conversing with DETECTIVE WELSH.

                                                                DETECTIVE WELSH

I’m serious, Edwin. This “Johnathan Bard…” Edwin, he already has two strikes.

WOLFE appears baffled for a moment.

                                                                       WOLFE

Pardon me, but this is his “second” offence?

DETECTIVE WELSH shakes his head grimly. He sighs and rubs his eyes.

                                                                DETECTIVE WELSH

Last night at cell inspection, he broke into some kind of rant about how the guards had something to do with his wife’s death. When Officer Brown came to inspect his cell, Bard-

                                                                        WOLFE

Johnathan?

                                                                DETECTIVE WELSH

None other. He glared at him with such intensity, I thought that the bars would melt. I just walking by his room when all of a sudden I hear a yelp.

                                                                          WOLFE

Did he attempt to…to kill him, Richard?

                                                                  DETECTIVE WELSH

He stabbed Officer Brown with a plastic spork. So needless to say, it wasn’t a particularly fatal wound

                                                                          WOLFE

(chuckling) As I would imagine.

                                                                   DETECTIVE WELSH

I know. It was pretty funny. It would be funnier if he hadn’t had that incident with Officer DeSantos two weeks ago, but unfortunately he did.

Isle of Bone

Hello everybody! Isabel here! We got another unfinished piece here. Enjoy! :D

Kent Henderson was just an average man caught in the midst of a war, like so many billions of others. He sat in a white tiled room, where the air was still and chilly. He grimaced at the ambience of the hall he sat in. It consisted of pens clicked by anxious hands; chaste whispers of large, Latin words he assumed had to do with medicine, and the rancid smell of various chemicals. 

Shifting on the faux leather bench, Kent could not help but feel misplaced at the scene. After all, he was only an undertaker. He never went to college, nor did his family prior to him. This rave about neurology baffled him. He silently regretted that. If Kent had become at least someone adept in the art of such skills, he would at least learn how to ward off his splitting headache.

The insistent beeps of the machines around him gave unsettling, echoing pings in his mind. They ricocheted unbearably in the vast concoction of irksome sounds. Kent grumbled low, cupping his hands and covering his weary head with them. Four hours. That was how long he had sat there, stagnant and stiff. And on top of that, he couldn’t leave until the doctor approved the body for examination.

Kent’s eyes shifted from his palms to the bench beneath him. It was an atrocious shade of green. He grimaced upon setting his eyes on it. Just the sight of it made him feel nauseous, not that the entire institution did not make him feel nauseous enough as it was. Kent snorted. He had grown so bored and grouchy he began to criticize the furniture. The doctor needed to hasten, or he would outright leave to go home and sleep, regardless of whether or not that was morally apropos.

The lights in a cracked door across from the bench in which Kent sat became brighter and blinding as the door swung open. Kent shielded his eyes, not expecting it to move for at least another two hours. A man in mint-colored scrubs and a mask held the knob firmly with his right gloved hand while his left tentatively clutched a clipboard.

“Mr. Henderson?” The nurse called. Kent rubbed his eyes with his thick forefingers. He yawned as he contracted his left shoulder and rolled it back. The nurse turned to him with impatient eyes, almost lecturing him to stop wasting time.

Kent muttered as he parted from the bench. “ ‘Bout time someone got me…” He was just loud enough for the nurse to be in earshot. Kent expected the man to narrow his eyes, but he simply stood there looking, daresay, quite visibly shaken by something.

Kent paled slightly at this. As he approached the door, Kent addressed the man in the walkway.

“What’s the matter with you, lad? Looks like you’ve just met a ghost.” The nurse shook his head, but said nothing. This only confirmed Kent’s skepticism on what the subject of interest was. Kent himself felt a knot forming in his throat, though he dismissed it with an edgy gulp.

Frankenstein: A New Beginning

Isabel Babel

FRANKENSTEIN: A NEW BEGINNING

The numbing cascades of wind were the first things that roused him from his slumber, or rather, his unconsciousness.

He heard the echo of baying hounds mournfully suffering the pain of northern sleet. And the moment he woke he realized that hope was running on slim rations. Soon this raging bull of a storm would cover the tracks of the man-no, the monster- that he was pursuing.

The man groaned into his fur-lined overcoat. He had seen the horrid things that the haggard, tethered beast was capable of committing, the atrocities that reflected his bitter past and appearance. And now he was made to rampage, destroying villages and terrorizing towns without remorse or mercy.

And he, Frankenstein, remained responsible for this creature’s crimes. The blood that the monster spilled would paint the punishment of guilt and exile for Frankenstein, and Frankenstein would be left with no path of redemption. He would be a helpless babe, mewling and whimpering for a chance for something that would forever be unknown to him, God’s mercy.

Attempting to stand, Frankenstein merely fumbled once more and stumbled until his weary legs gave in. He landed harder than a comet, rolling cinematically down a steep slope on the icy tundra, and was now profusely bleeding from his punctured lungs.

Frankenstein glanced down at the snow he now lay in. The ice was now tainted by the crimson blood that spurted from his mouth. He clamped his jaw shut at the harrowing sight, and tore his eyes away. But the very instant his jowls closed, his lung capacity was filled to the brim with blood. Frankenstein’s mouth went agape, in both pain and in fear of drowning in his own blood.

My bleeding must be caused by a slight puncture wound in my lungs. I’m guessing that it is a result of a cracked rib, Frankenstein assessed. He put a hand to his side and wheezed. Perhaps more than one, he amended. 

Littered around were his dying canine companions, or at least the ones that remained were dying. By the looks of it, around a quarter of the twenty dogs he had commenced traveling with had disappeared in the vast expanse of the snowy plains.

Frankenstein decided not to share their fate. Whether he lived or died, it now made not a sliver of a difference to him any longer. His sheer will to exist, his muse, his lover, passion, pride, serenity, had been shattered like a looking glass. And it had caused it.

Frankenstein, driven by this new fury, wandered aimlessly for what seemed like years, though they were mere hours. Previously, he had seen a light, the hue of gold shimmering on the pristine ivory of the snow. And now, as the pink haze of dawn approached, he found himself staring at the glare of the golden light again.

In such a long period of hunting, of scouring and searching, he had never seen such a gilded sight. An outstretched hand grasped his own, and he soon found himself being hauled onto the mighty vessel, fading into unconsciousness with a grin.

He had a chance.

Everest: An old sixth grade project

Journal of Isabel Babel

Entry of Everest

Day 1

This is really it! I stand here, at the start of the journey. It took it’s time and-well…money to come out here, but just imagining the feeling of standing at the top of the world with my crew is enough for me!

We had to take two planes, one to Katmandu, and the other to Luka. From here, we must start our hike to base camp. We here are all excited! Jim’s heating up our thermoses, Tom is helping put the supplies in our knapsacks. And Mike, well, he’s mainly giving encouraging comments.

       Still, I can’t help feeling a little vulnerable compared to this massive landform. For goodness sake, this could be Mount Olympus! And looking at the full view of the thing even when we’re hundreds of miles away, I can’t help but seem to shrink a little.

I better man up. Tomorrow, we start our voyage to base camp.

Day 2

       We just stopped climbing as we saw the outline of base camp. Just climbing this small distance makes me realize why no animals really care to live here. This weather is nasty! When we approached the camp Mike had this insane grin on his face. He urged us to hurry as he sprinted off to the building

       Typical Mike.

       Our older climber, Rick, told him not to venture far without the team. He’s a cranky old man, but he has more experience in a lock of his curly, gray hair than we have in our entire bodies.

       Jim smiled his famous ‘Oh-you-guys’ kind of smile as he rushed to catch up. Considering the fact that Tom was a perfectionist, this wasn’t according to the plan. Needless to say, he rolled his eyes and led on.

       I just had to grin at the boys. But as they say, boys will be boys. I’m just happy to be with them. Either none of us go, or all of us do.

Day 3

       We said our prayers today. It’s about a quarter past noon. I find it rather hard to believe that over 180 people died on Mount Everest. I’m not sure, though, if I was expecting more or less deaths.

       We knelt by the graves, placing down flowers even though we knew that they would wither. Even Mike sobered up for the time being.

       I cannot help but shiver at the thought of an icy death. Falling into the crevices as darkness swallows you whole.

       As we started climbing towards Camp 1, we had to walk athwart these pits about 30 feet across. Let me tell you, it wasn’t fun. Each one of us trusted or lives to a rusty old ladder. We also had the threat of being crushed by two-ton icicles.

       After we crossed, Mike took a snapshot and cleverly said, “You know, I’ve heard that if you fall in one of these, you’ll end up on the other side of the world.” Tom snorted and replied, “Way to lift our spirits, Shutterbug.” Did I mention that Mike was a famous photographer?

       Only a couple hundred miles to go. No sweat, if you’re a polar bear, that is.

Day 7

It’s been a while since my last writing. I currently am sitting in the camp right now, eating soup with the crew. One of our men has frostbite on his thumb. We…had to amputate it.

       I feel pretty horrible. About a dozen more of our crew, including Jim, now have hypothermia. We’ve reached camp three so far. Mike insists that we keep moving, confidently and kindly.

       I will have to put off writing entries for a while until further recovery of the team.

       We will make it to the peak. I know we will.

       Day 10

       A snowstorm blew in last night. Worse than any that we’ve seen so far. Contacts were down, and four of our men were blown away. Things have calmed down a bit now, and the sun is illuminating through the veils of sleet. We sent a search party out.

       Unfortunately, we couldn’t find anybody. One of them was Rick. He went out last night in the hopes of finding the lost men. We haven’t seen him since.

       Things are harder than we could have imagined. I hope we can bind together the survivors and pray to see home in person again.

       Day 15

       Blinding and stinging. Even as I write this entry, that’s all I can feel. The rest of me is numb. An avalanche crashed upon our camp leaving a dozen wounded.

       Jim is coughing up blood from his ribs. Apparently he broke them by coughing. I never imagined that that was even physically possible!

He and Tom had been friends for a little more than ten years now. Tom was sitting there by his side, crying. There was no noise, but I could see it in his eyes.

       Jim always calmed Tom down when his easily aggravated temper burst. The two were inseparable. Like the constellation Gemini. Tom was probably afraid of him dying.

       Quite frankly, I fear that too. Even Mike has practically given up on the encouraging speeches. Yet we’re close. So close.

       Day 17

       WE DID IT! I write to you from the peak of Mount Everest. I think its strange how for a dying hopeless moment ago, I could hardly move a muscle. Though my body tells me not to move, my spirit feels like soaring.

       I laid a Babel memoir, a collection of pictures of my family. I helped Jim set up his. Mike just keeps repeating the same word, “YES! YES! YES!!!” We all practically feel like dancing.

Tom grins at Jim who’s thrown his arm around his shoulders for support. Jim returns the favor with a “Wooohooo!!!” Tom chuckles and hugs him.

I’m just taking the moment in. I only wish that the lost members could see this. Somehow I feel Rick’s presence. And he’s smiling.

Mike runs over to me, beaming, and gives me the biggest hug humanly possible. My laughter was muffled as I bury my face into his jacket.

We did it! And now we can go home. The three boys and me.

Earthquake: An old fifth grade project

“The Most Amazing Stories Have a Twist, For Better or Worse”

By
Isabel Babel

“The most amazing stories have a twist, for better or worse…” I said as I composed my thoughts.

It was a lifeless dawn.  But, as I reached for my friend, my typewriter, I would soon enter into a place filled with bliss, adventure and more.  I loved the feeling of the keys at my fingertips. Going into my writing was like going forth on a new and exciting journey each and every time.  As my day began it was running smoothly, but little did I realize then that some of the same type of horrific moments, similar to some of those found in my books, would actually occur.  I would soon begin a brand new adventure of my own, and not one I would ever have hoped to experience.

As I was writing I suddenly heard a rasping, rumbling sort of noise.  “Thunder, perhaps?” I thought, but as I glanced out of the window, the sky seemed quite clear.  Suddenly, the Earth underneath my feet rocked and swayed violently.  I tried keeping my balance as the ground buckled. Cracks and creases formed in the ground below me.  Luckily, I managed to reach the door.  With my typewriter under one arm, I heaved myself outside as my house fell down behind me.  Another jolt slammed, and I lost my footing.  I had a pang of pain in my left flank as I heard the sounds of shouting, collapsing, and crushing.  I could hear the distant ring of church bells-roaring like angered beasts.  These sounds rang and echoed in my ears. 

I got off the cobblestones, and I sprinted as best as I could to get out of harm’s way.  I was able to avoid crushed cable cars that had smoke pouring out of them as I forged ahead.  I quickly glanced at the nurses and police fighting hard to move the critically wounded people and find safe shelter from the ravished landscape.  As I soldiered on through the streets, the rumbling grew ever more fierce.  I tumbled and tasted the rising dirt but still hung on to my typewriter.  It was all I had left in the world.  Others that had tried to rescue items from their homes had not been so lucky.  Some never made it out.

That moment, I realized that every second wasted meant life or death.  I began to think, “I have lost much, but at least I’m alive.”                        

At last I had reached shelter, grateful that my typewriter had not had any severe damage. In that long day, people grieved over death, home loss, and even for each other.

As I looked at my typewriter, a glimmer of hope shone brightly in my heart.   I knew how I could help.  I told stories, tall tales, folklore, and fables to the survivors.  I told myths of brave heroes to inspire them to not give up.  The adults applauded, kids giggled and laughed, and older children gave kind comments.  I then knew once we came together, we could again achieve happiness.  

Then I smiled.  The brave deeds of the heroes of old would pale in comparison to the bravery I saw as the simple people of this devastated town worked to rebuild the lives they lost in the rubble.

A Script For Drama Class

WOLFE is in his office, fiddling with a sand dial when a knock stirs him. He goes to answer the door. DETECTIVE WELSH is there with a frown on his face and a thermos in hand. WOLFE grins politely and waves him in.

                                                WOLFE

Ah! Good evening, Detective! I was expecting you would arrive earlier.

                                      DETECTIVE WELSH

I’m afraid that we had a little…incident with the new patient of yours.

                                                WOLFE

(grin fading) I see. No matter, he and I can speak about it now if you wish.

                                       DETECTIVE WELSH

Considering the fact that he almost strangled DeSantos into unconsciousness, let’s do that. Bring him in, Reacher.

WOLFE waits for JOHNATHAN to be ushered in by POLICEMAN. He doesn’t seem angry, but rather, he bears a grim acceptance. He stumbles into the room and remains still, eyes still fixated on the floor. WOLFE approaches him with a grin.

                                                WOLFE

How are you today, Johnathan? (he has his hands in the pockets of his wool jacket.)

            JOHNATHAN

I’m just peachy, Dr. Wolfe. Can’t you tell?

                                                POLICEMAN

Hey! You show some goddamned respect, you-

                                                WOLFE

(raises a hand to cut him off.) No worries, Reacher. This is how he says hello.

                                          DETECTIVE WELSH

(glaring at him) Speak when spoken to, Reacher. I thought I taught you better.

                                               POLICEMAN

Sorry, sir. It’s just that-

                                               JOHNATHAN

You heard what Welsh said, kid. If you’re wise, you’ll listen to your superior next time.

                                                  POLICEMAN

(opens his mouth to say something, but is shot down by a reassurance from Wolfe.)

                                                WOLFE

I believe that I have it from here, gentlemen.

WOLFE begins to walk them to the door. DETECTIVE WELSH frowns again and scratches his neck.

                                        DETECTIVE WELSH

Are you sure, Edwin? You know what happened last time…

WOLFE pats DETECTIVE WELSH’s shoulder and smiles.

                                                WOLFE

If I cannot trust my clients, how are they to trust me?

 DETECTIVE WELSH and POLICEMAN leave. POLICEMAN sneers at JOHNATHAN before a nod from DETECTIVE WELSH sends him out of the room.

            JOHNATHAN

Nice guy. Guess he’s a newbie, huh?

                                                WOLFE

(chuckling) I don’t think that they find your snide remarks as refreshing as I do, Johnathan.

                                            JOHNATHAN

(grimacing) I suppose that’s why you’re my only friend, then.

                                                WOLFE

Not your only friend. Just your best friend. What happened this morning, Johnathan?

JOHNATHAN puts his face in his hands.

                                            JOHNATHAN

I…I’m not really up for discussing it right now.

                                                WOLFE

It’s fine. Take your time.

                                            JOHNATHAN

Heh, you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew how long I intend to prolong this conversation. 

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.

Polly Come Home Fic by Jay Babel

Polly Come Home- Robert Plant and Alison Kraut

A Union soldier charges, fear penetrating him as a bayonet does the same. The heavy rain stings his face as it pelts the ground mercilessly. Falling to the mud beneath his feat in the trench by no man’s land, he desperately crawls to the green edge of the hill leading to a large patch of forest.

The Confederates simply sidestep him as he crawls, blinded by the panic and mayhem. The sounds of caterwaul and rain fade slightly as he crawls weakly but determinedly to the hill. He rolls down it, more roughly than he expected, and he slams into a pine on his side. Off to his left stand grim mountains, looming over the trees and the plains as though it were helpless in its destiny.

Mud clinging to his moustache and hair, the man clutches his bleeding side as a numbness spreads upon him. Streams of water tickle his cheeks, and he sees her as he is brought back to a memory from five years ago.

He lay there in his cabin bed, the rustic light streaming through his window pane illuminating the concerned face of his wife. The evening light glistened on her tears as the man’s temperature showed no sign of cooling off.

He gave her a reassuring smile, hoarsely telling her of how he could outlast sickness, even knowing how many did not. His large right hand wound around her thick fingers while his left caressed the tears sliding down her cheeks.

The man was lost in his mind, reality fading from view. The pine tree seeped small crystalline drops from where he lay, and one weary and bloodied arm reached up and brushed them with his calloused thumb. He felt her. Her warmth, her sweet soul, her presence. Nothing existed. Not the sounds of the war; Of brother killing brother. Not the whistling wind or ear-ringing shots of rifles.  Only her face.

When his heart stopped, when his arm fell limply to his side, when his breath ceased, life trudged on. The battle still raged. The blood still shed. The smoke of guns clung in the air persistently. And the mountain looked at it all, the same grim expression plastered on its mighty face.

Remembering The Fallen by Jay Babel

Que s'est desséché,

N'a pas été oubliée,

Que s'est effondré,

Ne mourra pas,

Peu importe ce qui est perdu,

Quel que soit le coût,

Rassurez-vous, il ne sera pas en vain

Alors renaître de ses cendres,

Et rappelez vous tombé,

Sentir la terre sous vos pieds,

Nous avons goûté à la guerre avant,

Nous avons goûté le sang et les larmes,

Mais nous n'avons jamais connu la défaite

Et bien que peut-être nous grattons nos genoux,

Et assis là pendant que nous siffler et saignent,

Nous avons finalement planté nos deux pieds

Venez plaisanterie sur moi,

Venez glousser et à voir,

Venez me réprimander

Vous pouvez me faire du mal,

Vous pouvez me taquiner,

Mais vous ne serez jamais me faire tomber

Vous ne pourrez pas gagner ce combat,

De peur que tu me plais,

Et tous les gens,

Qui est desséchée pour la justice

Mes frères et sœurs,

Mes mères et des pères,

Souvenons-nous de ceux qui sont tombés

What has withered,

Has not been forgotten,

What has crumbled,

Will not die,

No matter what is lost,

No matter what the cost,

Rest assured it will not be in vain

So rise from the ashes,

And remember the fallen,

Feel the earth beneath your feet,

We have tasted war before,

We've tasted blood and tears,

But never have we tasted defeat

And though perhaps we scrape our knees,

And sit there while we hiss and bleed,

We eventually planted both our feet

Come jest about me,

Come chortle and see,

Come and berate me

You can hurt me,

You can tease me,

But you will never make me fall

You won't win this fight,

Lest you please me,

And all of the people,

Who are parched for justice

My brothers and sisters,

My mothers and fathers,

Let us remember the fallen

Salutations All! Welcome to My Humble Abode!

     Greetings fellow fiction lovers and friends of all ages! This is a place where Dickens meets discussion! Where Lovecraft is loved! Where Austin is never ostracized and opinions are let free! I do ask that you refrain from naughty language, lest it be essential in your story or critique.

     Should you include the lewd, let it be known in the beginning of your post please. We may have more innocent members present, and tainting their vocabulary isn't exactly what this site was intended for. I will not censor any comments unless they neglect the warning in the start of this statement. Mostly because censorship stinks.

   Anyhow, enjoy your stay, feel free to browse the original pieces I have written, and please be polite and accepting. Thank you!