That was amazing, Cav; I don't throw around amazing very often, but that deserved it: it never once lost my attention; and what an ending!
This is a spontaneous story that I wrote last night (well, last afternoon to you guys.)
A God-sized hole
It all started on the first day of my fourteenth depravity case. Since the wise populace re-elected the Conservative Party in England, it seems as if I have been pulled on some sort of indecency every third week. Like the Romans who had to number the days, and the Nazis who had to number their inmates, numbers have been the only way to stop one immorality case moulding into another.
Anyhow, I had written, in a satire, about ?'halitosis problem ex-girlfriends' corseting men, and then proceeding to eat their spleens?-all of which was set to the tune of ?'I've got you under my skin.' I used this scenario to show that, despite how ghastly and unpleasant any certain ?'right' is, people will campaign to keep it?-and commit it if the Government banned it. Now, anyone could see that such a situation was as unpleasant as it is implausible. Everyone, it seems, except organized Religion, who thought that I was advocating such ?'sadistic sodomy,' which was beyond all reason.
Yet, needing a reason never stopped religion; in fact, if you want a basic concept of what religion is, think of everything that seems rational and true: religion is its reverse. So, I was all set up to be chastised and burnt like a witch by the fanatics?-which, for some reason, they thought was necessary to uphold freedom of expression! I had dodged the law's wrath before; yet, something told me that this would be an exception.
?-I imagined half-sterile prison cells, fusty writing paper, and objectionable roommates, and shuddered. Nevertheless, instead of running off to El Salvador, I stayed in England, got my best clothes on, and went to the trial.
I was nervously sipping some tasteless drink that the clerk had provided for me on that day. I forget the precise date; it doesn't matter. I had not the degradation of handcuffs or spooky prison vans, but everyone seemed to be looking at me in disbelief and horror.
Everyone disparaged me, to be exact, save for my pitiful ?'support "assemblage,"' and my old Religion teacher, Miss. Mulligan. She was one of those few, extra-ordinary people who, despite having lived in England all their lives, sound as though they have dined exclusively on soda-bread and red lemonade for the past three millennia. So, with a lack of anyone to talk to?-apart from my representative from F_____ publishing, who just frustrated me with his anxious reckonings?-I went over to talk to the short, black-haired woman who was married to God: an interesting companion.
?'Well, look who we have here! ,' she exclaimed with a calculated surprise. ?'If it isn't old ______! I never did expect that I'd be prosecuting you, my dear!'
?- ?'You're prosecuting me? ! ,' I replied.
She took no notice of my huge surprise, and carried on?-?'Well, God's socks! Who would have thought that it would be you, eh? I certainly didn't: you always used to go through the Old Testament with a zest that would please Abraham! I mean, you're _______.'
We were equally stunned. Unfortunately, being stunned gives one the articulacy of a deranged Third Division footballer, on hallucinogenic drugs, who speaks only Lingala, who has the unfortunate ailment of fire extinguisher foam being lodged deep up his left nostril. To elaborate, two people being stunned means saying the same ridiculous comment-questions repeatedly, not one answering the other, continuing in some sort of primordial daze until one cops their senses or has to leave. After a few minutes?-if you call thirty minutes a ?'few?-?' of her telling me my name, she snapped out of it, and said that, yes, she was prosecuting me. Hip, hip, hurray.
?'Well, my dear, it was unacceptable!'
?-?'Why was it?'
?'Because it clearly is!'
This was the height of the Church's ability to reason; it impressed me. None the less, one should know that the ability to confuse is much more useful than the ability to invoke God's footwear, so I had the upper hand.
(Foot-related theologians: do not worry; do not come around to my house with big placards screaming ?'Kill the B*tch' and ?'Shoe don't know what you're talking about;' I have as healthy an interest in whether God wore tube socks or standard ones as any other person.)
Anyway: I, like every academic who concerns him or herself with poetry, completely contorted it to befit the situation. What I said to God's bonnie bride does not warrant repetition; I used references to the Acts and to Corinthians II to back my claim that the poem was in support of traditional views. Truly, if I should find myself forced into the bleary battlefields of war, I should think that I would fare better with a Bible as a weapon than if I carried an Uzi.
?'Oh, you're a poor dear! I knew you weren't a blasphemer all along! Oh, pet! In spite of divine infallibility, we got it wrong. We'll cancel our prosecution. Oh, we are so sorry!'
?' Oh,' I said, feigningly nice, ?'that doesn't matter! At least you found out before you destroyed my entire life!'
?- She laughed.
?'After all,' I continued, flippantly, ?'you're not God yet!'
She looked upon me with disturbed emotion, as if she were a bullfrog caught in a beetroot cask, and then, the pain of forced laughter ensued.
?'What is the matter, Miss. Mulligan?'
?'Well?-if I tell you, you will keep it to yourself, yeah?'
?'Dear, if I were to tell anyone, I should at least have the decency to write it under a neat pseudonym so that you couldn't trace it back to me!'
I said this in a tone that seemed to be ?'Oh, of course I'm not going to do that! ,' which concealed the fact that, yes, I probably would. After all, writing an exposé about the God Squad's malevolent antics would be the only thing that I could get out of almost being prosecuted.
?'OK then,' she started. ?'God died, three hundred years ago.'
?'What? That's impossible!'
?'Heaven makes mistakes too, you know! Wherever you go, there's certainly someone just waiting to foul it all up.'
I stared, incredulously, at the devout creature before me who was making such contradictory suggestions.
?'It's only natural that, if you're surrounded with saints with leprosy, both types of Plague?-whichever is in fashion?-, and all sorts of abominable herpes, you're bound to pop your clogs eventually, dear!'
?'But?-?'
?'Ah, no buts.'
?'But, surely if God's dead, you shouldn't need to prosecute poor me!' I said, milking her sympathy for the hope that she would buy me some overpriced coffee. ?'God must be like that old, fusty uncle that you have to please?-until they die, of course.'
?'Oh, I'd have you wash your silly mouth out with soap! Really!'
?'What? If God's dead, no one goes up to Heaven, right?' I asked, half-impatient, half-amused.
?'Yes, you're right.'
?'So, why preach about constancy and prodigal sons, when there are no consequences whatsoever, Miss. Mulligan?'
?'Because,' ?-her strained Irish voice starting up like an old rustic chainsaw, then faltering whilst adding, ?'(I thought you'd understand this, ______,'), ?'because, this way, we can still try to scare the living jeetees out of people.'
?'Jeetees, what are they? Those blasphemous T-shirts that read "Jesus is my bro?"'
She ignored this question, and carried on: ?'You can't have a society with no tools to stop people from doing what you don't want them to do, in favour of doing what you Do want them to do.'
?'So, basically, you "scare" people, by evoking a dead God to support your own views.'
?'Yes. But, it's more than making slaves, as you will. It's about upholding decency.'
?'The decency that you have decided?'
?'Exactly! Now you're getting the hang of things, pet! Besides, it gives jobs and happiness to hundreds of people?-and a unique mission, divine I'd say, that stands them out from the rest.'
?'The unique mission, ?'His' divine will of putting people into jail for pointless things, like my poem for instance.'
?'Yes,' she said
?'That is absolutely brilliant; awe-inspiring, even,' I said. She couldn't see through the sarcasm of it all.
?'Now, don't you be having us convict you again, dear! I don't think that it would please God!' It wasn't the last of my cases; and it wasn't the last time that she would go off, cackling into the day, dissolving.
Very good story, Drom; you have a great sense of humor.
Thanks, Colorbook! I'm very glad to hear that you liked it.
Thanks, Edgar; I appreciate your comments [-;.
Good evening. I am realjohnboy. I've been watching this thread for awhile and have enjoyed it.
I like writing stories but I don't, sadly, have time to put together an entire tale all at once.
Is it okay to submit snippets which, by themselves don't necessarily have a beginning or end, but fit the whole. Thanks. -rjb-
Go for it rjb. I intended this thread to be something of a workshop, and wanted the stories posted to be fresh, new pieces.
okay, cav, you will probably rue the day...
BUCK'S ELBOW
(The Place)
Virginia, the state of Virginia, where I was born some 60 years ago, has some 200 years of history.
We produced Washington and Jefferson, Madison and Monroe. Lewis and Clark grew up just over the ridge from me.
And there is Robert E Lee. We have statues honoring him in almost every city.
Virginia is not a sleepy southern state anymore. We did some stupid things years ago but I think we are now beyond that. Virginia is now a Mid-Atlantic state.
There is a very rural part of Virginia, way down in the Southwest, on the border of West Virginia and Tennessee. I don't know much about those folks.
If you head west from Rt 29, right next to theUniveristy of Virginia, you would be on Barracks Road. It turns into Garth Road and, eventually, when you get to the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains it becomes Rt 831 and later 2034 before you get to the sign that says "End State Maintainance."
It's all uphill from there, on a gravel road that the residents of Buck's Elbow keep up.
Twenty-five familes up there. And not yuppies or hiippies. People who have lived there forever.
You've never heard of any of them except, perhaps, back on September 9th, 1969. A Piedmont Airlines DC3 crashed into the mountain somewhere closeby. For two days and nights the rescue people camped at Buck's Elbow until they found the wreckage. One passenger was found alive, still strapped in his seat. He was brought to Buck's Elbow. -rjb-
rjb, to continue, what you need is who was there, and what happened to that pilot (it doesn't need to be accurate). Clearly, these folks have their "own ways" which opens up many possiblities for an American Gothic tale. I would love to see some backwoods-style ritual cannibalism happening, but I'm a sucker for schlock. I might start with developing a few characters, local folk. Then, how do these people live? As nobody knows them, let your imagination run wild. Then, throw in the airplane crash situation. That would chalk up to an intriguing story, IMO.
I posted this short piece on another forum some time ago, but it was written spontaneously, and I wanted to re-post it here:
FIRSTS
Winter in Winnipeg was unseasonably warm that year, which for most living there should have been a godsend, given the normal tundra-like existence they were used to. Sadly though, it was also gray, wet and a perfect breeding ground for the teeny-tinies responsible for spreading disease. A deep-freeze may not be pleasant, but at least it's safe for the susceptible.
At first, my grandfather thought it was just a cold. After all, as a happily retired doctor, he would know. Being a good doctor, when things got worse, he checked in with his doctor. It was pneumonia, and it wasn't going away, ?'acute pneumonia', with complications, and nothing ?'cute' about it. After a brief stay in hospital, he called his children in Toronto, who immediately flew to Winnipeg. He gave them all messages still unknown to us youngsters, and then died, with his three beloved kids at his bedside.
Firsts. Knowing when it is your time to go, watching a father die.
The rest of the family, immediate and extended, traveled to Winnipeg for the funeral. I was asked to be a pallbearer, a first for me. I remember covering my grief with thoughts of ?'pall' and ?'Paul', my name, and what I was ?'bearing'.
All the siblings spoke well, with true grit and conviction, including my father. As a son, I was impressed with his stoic but poignant words. At that moment, I really felt like a kid again, wanting to be strong like dad.
All I can remember is that the coffin looked so small, and yet, was so heavy, like a burden. The ground in the cemetery was muddy and wet, and I thought on the necessity of boots, as black dress shoes just weren't made for such an occasion.
The rabbi said a few nice words. As they lowered the coffin into the ground, I turned to look at my father. He looked into my eyes and started crying. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. It was also the first time I ever embraced him, and the first time we cried together. I wept, for his loss, my loss, and for realizing for the first time that one day, I will have to bury him.
Cav, your story moved me. The first time I saw my mother cry was at her mother's funeral.
Great story, well told. sniff sniff
cav...that was great. -rjb-
I liked it, cav. Often I have to revisit a piece on here before coming to a conclusion. Too many distractions.
From the heart, Cav. The best kind of writing.
<APPLAUSE>
BUCK'S ELBOW
(The People)
Look in our phone book and you will find two and a half pages devoted to variations on a family name:
Shifflet, Shifflett, Shifflette, Shiflet, Shiflett, Shiflette, Shiftlett, Shiftlette and even Shifletttte.
Look in your phone book. Do any of those names appear?
It's an interesting clan. In my mind they pretty much showed up out of nowhere; appearing in the early 1800's. One of my employees, Jason Shif..., claims that they are Scottish.
Anyway, that clan, along with the Morrises and Maupins, settled into those narrow valleys: Buck's Elbow, Bacon Hollow, Blackwell's Hollow and so on.
Sometimes the folks (particularly the Shiffett's and the Morris's) wouldn't get along and Sheriff Bailey would have to go up there.
In general though, all of the folks on Buck's Elbow wanted was to be left alone.
rjb, sounds like there might be a little inbreeding going on there. People who marry their kinfolk always make great characters. We must hear more.
cav, the inbreeding joke is, relatively speaking, getting a bit stale. I'm not going there.
I ask, in all seriousness, that y'all look up these names in your local phone books and let me know how many folks from this clan have made it to your communities. -rjb-
(Surviving)
It's difficult to grasp the notion that, a mere hundred miles from Washington; thirty miles from Mr Jefferson's Univerity of Virginia, there could still be places that, by choice or circumstance, are still so isolated.
The folks in these places aren't eager to have ousiders visit. They aren't hostile. Rather they are wary You weren't here before; why are you here now? I happened to have an entree; a totally unexpected opening to the world of the hollow dwellers.
I wanted to start to tell you about how they live, but I'll maybe do that tomorrow.
Please don't ridicule these people because they aren't as sophisticated as you think you are. -rjb--
RJB, I see where you are going here, and think it's fascinating. My apologies for wearing out a thin joke. I had trouble finding the names in my neck of the woods, but your tale is building and we must hear more. Your scope and analysis of this clan is almost leaning towards a novel, rather than a short story. Great stuff.
Good afternoon...First a digression and then a bit of story.
My screen-name here is realjohnboy. I live outside Charlottesville, Virginia. Back in the 1970's there was a TV show called The Walton's. The creator of that show was a man by the name of Earl Hamner. He grew up, during the depression of the 1930's, in one of the places I have been talking about; up in the hills.
Hamner wrote himself into the plot as the eldest son, Johnboy (played by Richard Thomas who went on to other roles as an actor). Johnboy was the narrator and fancied himself to be an aspiring writer.
The show did tend to get syrupy but the writing, to me, was well-crafted and lyrical.
I regret to inform you that "Jim-Bob" died yesterday. He was Earl Hamner's youngest brother. Earl is 80. His brother was 67.
