The Virtual Storytellers Campfire

You think that's scary....I was quietly drifting off to conspiracy radio when I hear a caller say "Hi, my name is Paul, and I am the antichrist." I thought I had astrally projected and made the call myself. Luckily, it turned out to be a different Paul.

Whew! That's a relief!
Although, if you did call in to conspiracy radio, I'm sure they'd think you WERE. <LOL>

Good story, cav. Reminds me of dreams I've had. I am Irish, and my ancestors came from Cork.

Mrs. cav and I honeymooned in West Cork. I'm also a huge fan of Irish folk tales.

Pretty good little tale, cav.

Had a touch of food poisoning last night, and I was up pretty late. Not my own cooking, just so you know. Hey, it inspired Stoker's 'Dracula'....maybe I should eat eggs benedict at crappy restaurants more often...

I?'m a bit of Irish myself and it is known that you can't tell an Irish folk tale without the mention of a faerie, ghost or magic of some kind. Nice story Cav.

I have just a tad of Irish - We Hienze 57 people have a tad of almost everything.

Just to bring a bit of the original 'workshop' idea back to this thread....Mrs. cav, who is a far more disciplined writer than myself, read all my drafts here, and gave me sound advice. I chose to work on the Cal and Brent piece, and I have done a second draft. I would like to develop this story. The changes were minor, I suppose, but I think they strengthen the whole tale. Feel free to comment, and give advice on structure, grammar, spelling, where things fall short in terms of explication, where things might be over-explained. I've got thick skin, I can take it.

Oh, and I still need a title (that's how I know it ain't done yet):

Cal approached the farmhouse in his black suit and matching Oxfords. There had been rain the night before, and the wet, sticky mud crept up over his shoes and pantcuffs as he walked. It had been a long time since he had seen Brent, but today, they had to talk. Cal came to the end of the path and there was Brent, sitting on the porch with a longneck and a shotgun, which was pretty much how Cal remembered him.

"Hi Brent."

Brent got up and extended a hand.

"Hey, little brother, what brings you to my neck of the woods? If you want a beer, grab one from the cooler. If you want something stronger, you gotta go inside. Plenty of whiskey in the cabinet."

Cal released his grip.

"Thanks Brent, I'm okay. I'm not really here on a social visit."

"Oh?"

"The family sent me over. We didn't see you at dad's funeral today."

Brent took a long swig of beer.

"Hmm….well, I'm not sure what you all expected."

"We just thought that under the circumstances…"

"Uh huh. You just thought. I have to say, that was always your strong point, Cal. You were lucky to be born with the brains, and not the looks, eh?"

"Brent…"

"What? I'm only saying that dad sure loved his liquor."

Brent chuckled.

"I sure enjoyed our late-night chats also, real heart-to-hearts."

"Enough Brent, I know. Still, you never went to see him in the hospital. When he asked for you, said that he wanted to make amends, we pleaded with you to go….you don't know how he changed in those last weeks. How could you know? You were so damned stubborn you couldn't accept he might have actually been sorry. Brent, why didn't you just go?"

"Well, I was too busy to see him."

"You were too busy. Brent, you live alone here in this shack, nobody in the family is really sure what you do to pay the bills, and quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. You spend most of the day drunk, so what exactly were you so busy with that you couldn't give the man a chance?"

"I was busy waiting for him to die. Well, like I said, I don't know what you expected. Come on little brother, all this death talk is depressing. Let's do something to cheer me up a little. Grab a cold six-pack, will ya?"

"Brent…where are we going…"

"We're gonna shoot us a deer."

Brent whistled for his dog Hope and picked up the shotgun. Hope lumbered over, slowly wagging his shaggy black tail.

"All right folks, let's go."

Brent was a good tracker, and knew the land well. It didn't take long to find a deer.

"Check him out there, Cal. Not a twelve-pointer, but a fine animal indeed."

Brent readied the gun and felled the deer in one clean shot.

"Ha ha! Let's go take a look."

They approached the deer. It was a handsome animal. Hope sat, anxiously thumping his tail against the wet ground, awaiting Brent's command.

"Okay boy, go for it."

Hope leapt up and hungrily sank his yellowed teeth into the carcass.

"Heh heh, look at that Cal, interesting how the beast always goes for the genitals first, eh?"

Cal watched Hope gorge on the deer. His muzzle was now a thick patchwork of blood and gore, and something in the dog's eyes looked uncomfortably familiar. The snapping jaws, the ragged fur, the fury of the attack….

"Brent, I think I need to throw up."

"Find a bush, don't mess up the animal."

Cal ran as best he could in his dress shoes and started retching.

"Cal, you never had the stomach to look a wounded animal in the face. Never even brought home hurt little birds. Nose buried in your books, nature just seemed dirty to you. God help you if you had to touch an animal in need, you might get germs."

"Shut the **** up Brent."

"Well Brent, today I'm gonna show you something. Look at this buck. This thing isn't wounded, it's dead. Even with Hope enjoying himself down there, do you really think this piece of meat suffers? Take a look at its' face, Cal, look at it. It almost looks peaceful, don't it?"

Cal forced a quick look. "Yes, I suppose it does."

Brent leaned on his gun and stared at Hope and the mutilated deer for a few minutes. Cal noticed that a strange pallor had come over Brent's face.

"Okay Hope, enough."

Hope left the buck alone and joined Brent.

"Come on Cal, let's go. Leave this guy here for the worms. It's the least we can do."

They walked slowly back to the farmhouse. Brent sat on the porch.

"Cal, is there some beer left?"

"Yeah, want one?"

"Yeah, you should have one, you probably need it. Grab me a little whiskey from inside too, will ya, a large one?"

"Sure."

Cal came back with the whiskey, and opened a beer. It was getting late. He sat down on the porch with Brent and enjoyed a welcome swig of beer. As it always was with Brent, the day had been strange for him.

Brent finished his beer and started on the whiskey.

"Cal…"

"Yes, Brent?"

There was a long pause. "Why did he do it, Cal?"

"I don't know Brent."

The two brothers sipped their drinks and watched the sun set in silence. Meanwhile, Hope chased squirrels in the backyard, amused by the thought that they were always too elusive to be caught.

thanks, cav, for the trouble. Too late tonight to respond and you may regret the effort on your part. I concede that I am addicted to adjectives,
SO:
Paragraph 1: Is this the family homestead or is this some place where Brent has just ended up. If the former, we need to know a whole lot more. If the latter, we need to see perhaps some more discomfort at where Cal is. And what are Oxfords? -rjb-

Thanks, rjb, that's the kind of constructive criticism I need. Keep it coming, when you can. Oxfords are dress shoes, that's all.

I consider that the tale is interesting. It seems it ought to give a bit of a broader hint as to what the father's transgressions were.

I'll be working on it paragraph by paragraph, so I probably won't post anything new for a few weeks at least. Mrs. cav pointed out many places where I need a lot more exposition, expansion and descriptive writing. I'm hoping rjb has some more tips coming as well.

let me see;

Cal approached the farmhouse in his black suit and matching Oxfords.
or did he approach it in his green Ford Fairlane.....
try : Cal, dressed in a black suit (ovbiously his), and matching Oxfords, approached the farmhouse.

There had been rain the night before, and the wet, sticky mud crept up over his shoes and pantcuffs as he walked. It had been a long time since he had seen Brent, but today, they had to talk. Cal came to the end of the path and there [he]was [ ], sitting on the porch with a [longneck], [ a long neck???, or is a 'longneck' something we should know about, the similarity is confusing, if one does not know what a 'longneck' is!] and a shotgun, which was pretty much how Cal remembered him.

"Hi Brent."

Brent got up and extended a hand.

"Hey, little brother, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"If you want a beer, grab one from the cooler. If you want something stronger, you gotta go inside. Plenty of whiskey!" [ he would know ] in the cabinet.'

Cal released his grip.

"Thanks Brent, I'm okay. I'm not really here on a social visit."

"Oh?"

"The family sent me over. We [weren't at] [didn?t see you] at dad?s funeral today."

Brent took a long, [nervous] swig of beer.

"Hmm. Well, I?m not sure what you all expected[?]"

"We just thought that under the circumstances[....]"

"Uh huh. You just thought."
"I have to say, that was always your strong point, Cal. You were lucky to be born with the brains, and not the looks, eh?"

"Brent?"

"What? I?m only saying that dad sure loved his liquor." [odd way of saying it/bringing this up?]

Brent chuckled.

"I sure enjoyed our late-night chats; [with dad, or Cal] [ also,] real heart-to-hearts."

"Enough Brent."

"[I know.] Still, you never went to see him in the hospital. When he asked for you, said [that] he wanted to make amends."
"We pleaded with you to go?."

"You don?t know how he changed in those last weeks. How could you know? You were so damned stubborn you couldn?t accept he might have actually been sorry."

"Brent, why didn?t you just go?"

"Well, I was too busy [to see him]."

"[You were] Too busy!"

"Brent, you live [alone here] here alone, in this shack, nobody in the family is really sure what you do to pay the bills, and quite frankly, I?m not sure I want to know. You spend most of the day drunk; so what exactly were you so busy with that you couldn?t give the man a chance?"

"I was busy waiting for him to die!"

[Well, like I said,] "I don?t know what you expected."
"Come on little brother, all this death talk is depressing. Let?s do something to cheer me up a little. Grab a cold six-pack, will ya?"

"Where are we going?"

"We?re gonna shoot us a deer!"[Brent] whistling for his dog Hope and pick[ing] up the shotgun.

Hope lumbered over, slowly wagging his shaggy black tail.

"All right [folks ??], let?s go."

Brent [was] being a good tracker, and kn[owing] the land well, It didn?t take long to find a deer.

"Check him out there, Cal."
"Not a twelve-pointer, but a fine animal indeed."

Brent [raised] readied the gun and felled the deer in one clean shot.

"Ha ha!"
"Let?s go take a look."

They approached the deer. It was a handsome animal. Hope sat, anxiously thumping his tail against the wet ground, awaiting Brent?s command.

"Okay boy, go for it."

Hope leapt up and hungrily sank his yellowed teeth into the carcass.

"Heh heh, look at that Cal, interesting how the beast always goes for the genitals first, eh?"

Cal watched Hope gorge on the deer. His muzzle was now a thick patchwork of blood and gore, and something in the dog?s eyes looked uncomfortably familiar. The snapping jaws, the ragged fur, the fury of the attack."

"[Brent,] I think I need to throw up."

"Find a bush, don?t mess up the animal."

Cal [moved] [ran] as best he could in his dress shoes and start[ing to retch]ing.

"Cal, you never had the stomach to look a wounded animal in the face. Never even brought home hurt little birds. Nose buried in your books, nature just seemed dirty to you. God help you if you [ever]had [the need] to touch an animal. [in need,] you might get germs."

"Shut the **** up. [Brent.]"

["Well Brent, today I?m gonna show you something."
"Look at this buck. This thing isn?t wounded, it?s dead. Even with Hope enjoying himself down there, do you really think this piece of meat suffers? Take a look at its? face, Cal, look at it. It almost looks peaceful, don?t it?"

Cal forced a quick look.
"Yes, I suppose it does."

Brent leaned on his gun and stared at Hope and the mutilated deer for a few minutes. Cal noticed that a strange pallor had come over Brent?s face.

"Okay Hope, enough!"

Hope [immediately] left the buck [alone] and [joined - came to]Brent.

"Come on Cal, let?s go. Leave this guy here for the worms. It?s the least we can do."

They walked slowly back to the farmhouse.
Brent sat [down] on the porch, [looking _______(serious, forlorn, anxious?)].

"Cal; [is there some] [any] beer left??

"Yeah, want one?"

"Yeah, you should have one, you probably need it. Grab me a little whiskey from inside too, will ya, a large one?"

"Sure."

Cal [came back with] [brought] the whiskey, and opened a beer. It was getting late. He sat down on the porch with Brent and enjoyed a [welcome] [calming] swig of beer. As [it] always [was] with Brent, the day had been [a] strange [one].

Brent, finish[ing the] beer and started on the whiskey.

"Cal?"

"Yes, Brent?"

There was a long pause.

"Why did he do it, Cal?"

"[ ]Don?t know[ ]."

The two brothers sipped their drinks and watched the sun set in silence.

Meanwhile, Hope chased squirrels in the backyard, [seemingly unaware [amused by the thought] that they were always too elusive to be caught.


your thoughts?

I'm taking all editorial advice Bo. Thanks.

so...basically in the making notes stage right now.

Good evening, cav. I'm not sure, because I haven't read Bo's post in its entirity and compared it to yours, but he/she seems to be working on the dialogue between Brent and Cal. Cool.
You should not, in my opinion, ever ever answer the question...
"Why did he do it.'

Okay...I'm doing this slowly. This is my rework of the first paragraph. Let me know what you think:

Cal approached the farmhouse where he and Brent spent many summers in their youth. Brent took over the place when he left home, over a decade ago. Nobody else in the family visited the farmhouse much after that.

Cal's thoughts turned to the muddy ground. There had been heavy rain the night before, and he was dressed in his best black suit, and his good shoes. Cal felt a little discomfort at the filth as the wet, sticky mud rode up over his pantcuffs, and he brooded over the dry-cleaning costs he would have to pay after this visit to his brother.

The farmhouse was just up the path. Cal noticed that Brent had let the place go. The eaves were clogged, the roof looked like it was about to collapse, and the weeds had taken over the land. Brent was sitting on the porch, with a longneck, and a shotgun in his hand, which was pretty much how Cal remembered him.

I liked it even in the first version that you posted; but I'll be interested in seeing your developing it..

I wrote this farce to be read, rather than performed, when some thing needed padding out a while back... I don't particularly like it, but I thought that I would post, regardlessly.

Act One

We enter a busy US' courtroom; whatever case we are about to see must be a controversial one, as people have filled every seat.

The court is the usual; there is the raised box of the judge, the state flag behind him, and two benches in front of him?-those of the plaintiff and the defendant. The judge is not yet there. There is much hubbub, and many camcorders.

In the plaintiff's chair sits a man called Chuck Winslow. One describes his style most fittingly as ?'hillbilly-chic.' If he had any more stomachs, he would be declared a cow. The Prosecution Lawyer sits next to him; Chuck was advised to get a real attorney, rather than his cousin, who, since buying a lawyers' certificate at the ?'Swap Meet-mart,' has been representing each and every ?'financially-different' person in court cases like this. The Prosecution lawyer is a fiery, psychotic-looking man from New England, called James Masterson.

The defendant is a consternated-looking, wealthy CEO called Charles Vincent. He looks like one of the affluent characters in Dickens' novels. It seems as if this court-case is the first time that he has been exposed to ?'the Hoi Polloi' since he banned Christmas parties at his Shampoo factory, because he could feel ?'the stench of proletarians rising in the air, aggrieving [his] lungs.' He and his company advocate, Guy De Genève, clearly hope that this ends soon, so that they can get back to holidaying in The Hamptons , and to discreetly judge Miss. White America contests.

?-A hubbub: the judge, a middle-aged black American with a friendly face and a playful, unaffected manner, Judge Zachary Joyce enters the courtroom with his new trainee, a young, unfazed woman called Eleanor Price.

Clerk (María: ) The Court of Florida is now in session, the Honourable Judge Zachary Joyce presiding. Please be seated, and come to order. (A pause, to allow resettling ) Case number sixteen-nine-four-two?-Winslow versus Vincent and Sons Shampoo Company, your Honour.

Joyce: Very well?- thank you, María.
-- María returns to sitting

Joyce: Have you opening statements to make?
?-Both advocates say ?'No, your Honour.'

Joyce: Well; let's get on with the case. First, the case for the plaintiff. Mr Masterson.

?-Mr. Masterson clears his throat too loudly and starts, after a few utterances of ?'ahem.'

Masterson: On the Twenty-seventh of March, in the year two thousand six, my client had his fortnightly shower:

?-Some of the ?'audience' make sounds of distaste.

Masterson (continued:) After approximately five minutes of soaping himself, he reached for the Vincents' Peach formula shampoo, spreading it, in no particular order, over his locks. And… (A dramatic pause.)

Joyce: Yes, Mr. Masterson?

Masterson (melodramatically:) And some got into his eyes. Eyes, eyes, eyes have?-since the dawn of man?- been what we live by.

VOICE 1: He must have been an English student; he knows the value of repetition.

VOICE 2: He's lost the vote of the blind and the PC, though.

Masterson: Can any of you, good jurors, imagine life without something so essential as eyesight?

?-General, anxious murmurs from the Jurors' bench.

Masterson: Exactly. So, picture how you'd feel if your eyesight were damaged by an inadequate hair product!

?-Tumult from the jurors' bench: ?'I sure wouldn't like that;' ?'Imagine how easily it could go! ;' ?'They really should go down, those fat-cats; if I had my way, I'd kill them all;' etc.

De Genève: Objection, your Honour. Empathy has nothing to do with the case. If the jury are to judge this case fairly, they have to look at it objectively.

Joyce: Sustained, Mr. Genève. (To the jurors) The Prosecution speaks the truth. So erase everything that could arouse empathy that the Defence said from your heads.

?-The jury stare stupidly. Masterson looks angry, but continues.

Masterson: Vincents' shampoo got into his eyes. My client, in explainable panic, tried to clutch his towel; like a soldier drowning in mustard gas, he tried to fight to get his sight, his life back; once, twice: he couldn't.

VOICE 1: What did I tell you?

Masterson (Continued:) He was blinded, and so, he had to cope with the searing pain drilling through him for five minutes. It made his eyes water. It made them water, for Goodness' sake. The salt in his wound, was that Vincents have a promise on all of their bottles. That promise is, ?'No tears, no fears! ;' this obviously was not the case for my client. To-day, my client is rightfully suing Mr. Vincent and sons for the trauma they and their shoddy products caused.

?-Approving muttering from the jury. De Genève writes down something, in a moved manner. Masterson pauses for the full extent of his masterful words to sink in.

Masterson: Your Honour, I wish to call my first witness: Mr. Winslow's son, Barry Winslow.

?-Coyly, and in a very slow?-but unmethodical?-manner, Barry Winslow comes from the back of the court to the witness box. They swear him in, and he slouches in the witness box. He is about sixteen. Being a sixteen-year-old male, he has the comprehension level of a ten-year-old girl, without her redeeming value of true compassion. He looks too dumb to be wistful; instead, he seems all out sad. He speaks with a twang.

Clerk 2: Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Barry: Yup I swear that.

Masterson: Master Winslow, would you be so kind as to explain what your household was like after the incident?

Barry: Yes.

A long pause. On about five occasions, Masterson looks ready to tell him, ?'go on then;' yet, every time that he cracks open his mouth, Barry opens his. This goes on for around forty-five seconds. Masterson eventually caves in.

Masterson: Go on, then.

Barry: It was, like, sad.

De Genève stifles a laugh. Masterson, who is trying to make Barry's judgement seem worth listening to, is not a happy bunny. Being a lawyer, he keeps composure.

Masterson: Why was it sad, exactly?

Barry (Hesitant:) Because: it was like… papa can't speak or see nothin'?-
0
De Genève: Excuse me, your Honour. If he couldn't see nothing, then he could see something. Hence his case is a lie.

Joyce: If you could, for a minute, put your Harvard grammar away for a minute, Mr. Genève.

De Genève (bitterly:) Yes, sir.

Masterson: ?-let's carry on. So, you were heavily traumatized by this turn of events?

Barry: Huh?

Masterson: You were sad?

Barry: Yep I sure was. Papa couldn't even go to work or nothin', it seemed as if we were gonna die or something ?'cause of that.

?-He points a finger at Mr. Vincent. The crowd gasp and try to whisper.

Masterson: Indeed, that and his false promises got you writing the most heart-rending poems ever, did it not?

Barry: Yup, sir.

Masterson: Would you care to share some with the court?

?-Barry takes a while to adjust himself. He gets out a small, black book. Stony-eyed, he does not wait for everyone's attention; he starts to ?'perform.'

Barry: (torturously slow-paced, pausing at the end of each ?'line') Why do I sigh?
Why do I cry?
It's ?'cause my dad
Is gonna die.
He got some stupid
Shampoo in his eye.
And it said ?'no more tears,
No more fears
No more years
Thinking he'd never see
And he can't see, and he can't see
And I keep telling me
To stop this sigh
To stop this cry
But I
Just can't. I wanna die. -

?-Large resettling, combined with assuring applause. Some people are clapping because it's over.

VOICE 2: He must have suffered a lot.
VOICE 1: Indeed. It's ruined his sense of judgement.

Masterson: Wonderful. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this masterful evoking of grief and blindness just goes to show that this company's outright negligence has damaged the lives of more than just Mr. Winslow himself: with their false promises, his whole family could have been ruined.

De Genève : Objection! Exceptionally badly written ?'poetry' is something completely subjective; how can the Plaintiff dare to use it?

Joyce: Sust?-

Masterson (desperately:) Objection to the objection! If diaries can be used as evidence against something, why can't poetry?

Joyce (sternly:) Because diaries are an attempt to tell the whole, objective truth we require. Poems, like the young man's, are self-obsessive and entirely slanted.

Masterson: ?". (Pause.) Well, thank you, Master Winslow; I appreciate the jury can see what suffering you've been through without your poem.

-- Muttering affirms this.

Joyce: Mr. Genève, do you want to cross-examine the witness?

De Genève: No, Sir; I don't want to run the risk of listening to more poetry.

Joyce: Fair enough. You may go now, Master Winslow.

Barry Winslow returns to his seat, thoroughly ?'traumatized.'

Masterson: The second witness whom I wish to call to-day, your Honour, Capriccio Bronx.

?-Capriccio Bronx saunters flashily towards the witness' box. She is dressed in Gucci from head to toe, fake-tanned, looking trashy in clothes that cost £500 per square inch; these, to her, are ?'approachable, casual, gettin' down with ordinary folk, I'm still an ordinary gal' garments.

Clerk 2: Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Bronx: So help me God.
Masterson: Miss. Bronx?-

Bronx: Just call me ?'Bronx,' ?'cause that's where my homies… is at.

Masterson (Incredulous, but suppressing his feelings OK, Bronx;

Bronx (Protracted Yeah…

Masterson: How are you involved with my client, Mr. Winslow's, plight?

Bronx: Well?-it was one day?-and I got told about him?-and I thought I'd seen the light. You know, I thought… this poor man!… and so I set out to help people like him… I cancelled a Beautiologist appointment and set up the Center for Victims of Shampoo.

--Murmurs of ?'she's a real saint,' and the like.

Masterson: Are there many such cases of this sort of negligence going around, Miss. Bronx?

Bronx: Yeah. (Remembers to keep accent up) Hund'ads o' people.

Masterson: Hundreds?

Bronx: Yea, sure.

----Her telephone rings. She goes to pick it up. Masterson mouths ?'no,' so she does not, reluctantly.

Masterson: Then the Jury can clearly see that the sad case of my client is not isolated. How many said that they were afflicted by Vincents' shampoo?

Bronx: We didn' ask them that! We were just busy consoling them, not getting data. Loads couldn' even see for years; when they saw the ad on the TV, they just had to call.

----- Vincent sneers

Masterson: Ladies and gentleman jurors: for all we know, all of these hundreds of cases could have been caused by Vincents' shampoo. We must thank this young lady for sacrificing herself to show that to us; although it would be preferable that she never needed to. Thank you, Miss. Bronx.

----Capriccio Bronx leaves the witnesses' box, clearly trying to make a statement. Half-way through walking out, she picks up her phone and starts talking loudly.

Masterson: If you would, I'd like to call my third and final witness, my client, Mr. Winslow himself.

?-Winslow clumsily advances toward the witness box. Masterson allows a pause, a resettling, before he continues

-- A clerk extends a magazine rack toward Chuck Winslow. On it are the Bible; The Definitive Guide for Modern Satanists; the Koran, etc; and a copy of Playboy with Britney Spears' bosom emblazoned on it. After some hesitation, and some signalling by Mr. Masterson, Chuck tells himself to choose the Bible.

Clerk 2: Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Chuck: Yes I do.

?-The clerk mutters: ?'meh, good enough.' importune

Masterson: Mr. Winslow; could you tell the good people of the jury what happened you on the twenty-seventh of God's year, 2006?

Chuck: Sure. I been in shower, reached for shampoo?-and it got in my eyes.

Masterson: How did it feel?

Chuck: It burned my eyes real bad, and I couldn't do nothing to stop it. I just'd got to try and bear it, but it hurt me so much, it got my eyes all hot and wet.

?-One snigger, but many sympathetic murmurs.

Masterson: How long did this sightlessness last?

Chuck: Six days.

Vincent (Sotto voce, angrily Bullshit!

De Genève : Objection! Permit me to doubt, your Honour, that an alleged ?'blinding?-?' that is to say, a momentary pain in the eye?-could cause blindness for six days.

Joyce: That is not a valid objection, Mr. Genève. Leave your doubts and considerations to the cross-examination.

De Genève: Yes, your Honour.

Masterson: Six days! That is absolutely dire.

Vincent (infuriated It's not dire; it's impossible!

Joyce: Mr. Vincent, you are not the witness. Hold your peace. (Pause) Mr. Winslow, could you confirm for the court that you spent six days blind due to shampoo?

Chuck: ?", sorry sir, that's not what I was try'n'a say.

Joyce: How long were you blind?

Chuck: For about four minutes.

Masterson: (Interrupting quickly) But my client was so scarred by the whole thing, he had repercussions. His blindness came back to him again and again?-perhaps this was the lasting effect of whatever be-damned chemicals are in their toxic mix?-and, when he wasn't re-blinded, he feared that it would come back again. (To the jurors) What kind of wretched life is it, when one is either blind or fears being blind again? Can you even call that a life?

De Genève (Exasperated Objection; he's using empathy again!

Joyce (Level-headedly Please, stop with these empathetic questions that have little to do with the facts of the case, Mr. Masterson. Sympathy has nothing to do with the Law.

Masterson: On to facts, then: how many days did you miss work due to your fear of blindness?

Chuck: Two weeks.

Masterson: Two weeks? That's incredible. (Hints) I can't believe you didn't lose your job after that.

Chuck: I did; they sacked me when I gone back to work Monday after… they thought I war lying to then.

Masterson: You lost your job; not because you chose not to go to work: it was completely out of your hands?-it never would have happened if you'd never used their shampoo.

De Genève : Objection! Objection! Objection! That is personal opinion!

Joyce: Mr. Genève, I can appreciate why you want to curb Mr. Masterson's frequent use of empathy; but a court case is the practise of one set of opinions against another, so Mr. Winslow's beliefs are perfectly valid. Questioning them is restricted to the cross-examination, understood?

Masterson: People of the Jury: you have listened to the effects of a punishment that has ruined careers, egos, and even families, for no good reason. If my client has been punished for something, it is for putting his faith into a shampoo company unreservedly; he expected them to deliver on their false promise, as?-I contest?- any reasonable person would. This is his reward. The case for the plaintiff rests.

Joyce: Mr. Genève, do you wish to cross-examine?

De Genève: I do indeed, your Honour. (Looks towards Mr. Vincent with a look of ?'I have a plan.'.) I would, however, like to keep the case for the defendant brief; unlike my adversary, I believe in the jurors' intelligence.

(Continued, after a brief pause, composedly Mr. Winslow: how do you know that it was the shampoo that made you to cry?

Chuck: Because, I wasn't watering before I put the shampoo on, and when I put it on, that was when I started.

De Genève: So, what you're saying is that you started wincing the second you put the shampoo on?

Chuck: I don't can remember.

De Genève: It is funny, that you should be able to remember exactly how long your ?'sightlessness' and your flânerie lasted, and nearly everything else about this sorry affair, and you can't remember the one, fundamental thing about it!

Masterson (calmly: ) Objection; that has no relevance.

De Genève (fractiously: ) How doesn't it?!

Joyce: Believe it or not, Mr. Genève: when you go into the shower, you don't bring a stopwatch in with you; at least, normal people don't.

De Genève (Exasperated: ) But he should be able to remember when he started! ?", forget it. If you're not sure whether it was the shampoo that started you crying, this whole case is spurious; it could have been caused by your coming into contact with water; by your being sad that you had triplets instead of sextuplets, or even by your life never being the same ever since the Cosby Mysteries were axed.

Masterson: Then why did he start crying upon putting on the shampoo?

Joyce: That's not a valid objection, Mr. Masterson.

Masterson (Pauses: ) Objection; it is clear that my client started crying when the shampoo was applied.

--Brief murmurs of agreement from the Jury

Joyce: That's not a valid objection either, Mr. Masterson.

Masterson: Yes, your Honour.

De Genève: Well, I have no further questions. I believe enough in the Jury to feel safe that they will see that Mr. Winslow is nothing more than a freeloader; and a bad one at that.

VOICE 1: My, if you're going to freeload, at least do it well!

Joyce: Thank you, Mr. Genève. The Jury is now called on to make their decision.

ANNOUCER (María This court is now in recess.

All exeunt

Act Two

Approximately two hours have passed since the jurors retired to make their decision. They have re-emerged. We enter as Judge Joyce returns.

Announcer (María This court is now in session. Please be seated and come to order.

Joyce: Have the jurors their decision made?

Foreman: We have, your Honour.

María: To charge 50906A, Commercial negligence, how do you find the defendant?

Foreman: Guilty.

María: To charge 91211A, Mass administering of toxic and/or hazardous chemicals, a criminal charge, how do you find the defendant?

Foreman: Guilty.

Joyce: Well, I am surprised, to say the least, but the jury have decided to punish Mr. Vincent for not putting enough care into his shampoo, to avoid… (searches for the word) situations like this. I am obliged to put all the law's severity down upon you financially, as there is no reason why a rich man like you should get off guiltlessly. Mr. Vincent, you must pay a fine of £700,000, or hand your company to the State.

----Vincent sighs with a pathetic expression of ?'what can one do?'

Joyce: I am obliged to put all the law's leniency down upon you remand-wise, as there is no reason why a rich man like you should get put to jail instead of working. Mr. Vincent, you must spend three days in an open prison, which can be shortened to a day-and-a-half under parole rules.

Vincent: No-o-o-o-o-o!

Joyce: Yes, Mr. Vincent. The court is now dismissed.
------Bailiffs approach Mr. Vincent.
De Genève (furious, stopping everyone from going:) This is an outrage!

Vincent (in the hands of two bailiffs:) What kind of goddamn retard washes with Baby ******* shampoo?
Masterson: That's libel and you know it…
Joyce (wearily:) No, that's libel.
Vincent (looking more like a madman every second:) Well, it's TRUE! God?-get a grip! Buy some adult shampoo for a change; what are you, perverted?

Masterson (Incredulous; playing to the crowd:) Perverted for buying shampoo?

Vincent: It's ******* baby shampoo! What kind of jackass buys that?

Voice 2: He's doing nothing for his marketing prospects.
Voice 1: Are you sure? Next Heathcliff, I thought.

Masterson: O, but you said in your adverts: ?'fun for baby, fun for you!'

Vincent: Ex?-

Masterson: So now you're breaking another promise?

Vincent: WHAT promise?

Everyone but De Genève, Vincent, Masterson, and the two voices slip away, discretely

Masterson: You're calling half your market retards! What would the papers take of that?

Vincent: I don't?-

Masterson (cocky:) I'm sure half these people wouldn't buy it if it weren't for a certain promise…

Vincent: WHY should I… his crying?

De Genève: I demand the statistics on how often Chuck cries in the bathroom, now!

Their argument continues, but is unintelligible

Voice 2: How long d'you give this until it finishes?
`
Voice 1: Another five hours, if we're lucky.

--The voices sit glumly. We can hear the argument in full flow, but their voices are crowded on top of each other. Voice 1 produces sandwiches in tinfoil.

Voice 1: Ham?
Voice 2: You're too kind.

They sit on the edge of the court, eating while De Genève argues the whole ?'Cosby mysteries theory.'

FINIS

Okie dokie....this will be the last of Cal and Brent here, before I just work on it myself, with a little help from 'The Elements of Style':

Cal approached the farmhouse where he and Brent spent so many summers when they were young kids. Guests always commented on how clean-cut Cal and ragged Brent complimented each other. Those were different times, and Cal sorely missed them.

Brent took over the place when he left the family home, almost a decade ago. Nobody visited there much after that.

Cal's thoughts turned to the muddy ground as he plodded towards the house. There had been heavy rain the night before, and he was dressed in his best black suit, and his good shoes. He felt a little discomfort at the filth, and contemplated the dry-cleaning costs he would have to pay after this visit.

Cal continued slowly up the path. The first thing he noticed was that Brent had let the place go. He had really let it go. The eaves were clogged, the roof looked like it was about to collapse, and the weeds had taken over the land. It was a pity, really. Cal spotted Brent sitting on the porch with a Coors longneck, and a shotgun in his hand, which was pretty much how he remembered his brother.

"Hi Brent."

Brent got up and extended a hand.

"Hey, little brother, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Cal felt uncomfortable. Their relationship had been strained at best for years now.

"If you want a beer, grab one from the cooler. If you want something stronger, you gotta go inside. Plenty of whiskey in the cabinet."

Cal released his grip on Brent's overly strong handshake.

"Thanks Brent, I'm okay. I'm not really here on a social visit."

"Oh?"

"The family sent me over. We didn't see you at dad's funeral today."

Brent took a long swig of beer.

"Hmm….well, I'm not sure what you all expected."

"We just thought that under the circumstances…"

"Uh huh. You just thought. I have to say, that was always your strong point, Cal. You were lucky to be born with the brains, and not the looks."

"Brent…"

"What? I'm only saying that dad sure loved his liquor."

Brent chuckled.

"I sure enjoyed our late-night chats also, real heart-to-hearts."

"Enough Brent, I know", Cal said. "Still, you never went to see him in the hospital. When he asked for you, said that he wanted to make amends, we pleaded with you to go. You don't know how he changed in those last weeks. How could you know? You were so damned stubborn you couldn't accept he might have actually been sorry. Brent, why didn't you just visit?"

"Well, I was too busy to see him."

"You were too busy?"

Cal was visibly upset.

"Brent, you live alone here in this shack, nobody in the family is really sure what you do to pay the bills, and quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. You spend most of the day drunk, so what exactly were you so busy with that you couldn't give the man a chance?"

"I was busy waiting for him to die. Well, like I said, I don't know what you expected. Come on little brother, all this death talk is depressing. Let's do something to cheer me up a little. Grab a cold six-pack, will ya?"

"Brent, where are we going?"

Cal had a bad feeling about his brother's plan, and felt an instinct that whatever it was, it couldn't possibly turn out well.

"We're gonna shoot us a deer."

Brent whistled for his dog Hope and picked up the shotgun. Hope lumbered over, wagging his shaggy black tail.

"All right folks, let's go."

Brent was a good tracker, and knew the land well. There were some deep woods just beyond the boundaries of the property where he had spent a lot of time hunting. It didn't take long to find a deer.

"Check him out there, Cal. Not a twelve-pointer, but a fine animal indeed."

Brent readied the gun and felled the deer in one clean shot.

"Ha ha! Let's go take a look."

They approached the deer. It was a handsome animal. The afternoon sun made the hide seem like it was glistening. With its dark eyes closed, it gave the impression of angelic innocence interrupted. The antlers weren't perfect, but looked like they could still take a good rut.

Hope sat, thumping his tail against the wet ground, awaiting Brent's command.

"Okay boy, go for it."

Hope leapt up and hungrily sank his yellowed teeth into the carcass.

"Heh heh, look at that Cal, interesting how the beast always goes for the genitals first."

Cal watched Hope gorge on the deer. His muzzle was now a thick patchwork of blood and gore, and something in the dog's eyes looked uncomfortably familiar. It was the fury of the attack. The dog's jaws snapped at the carcass, ripping fur, pulling out tendon and organs, and then Cal heard the distinct sound of crunching bone.

"Brent, I think I need to throw up."

"Find a bush, don't mess up the animal."

Cal ran as best he could, dizzy from his nausea, and started retching.

"Cal, you never had the stomach to look a wounded animal in the face. Never even brought home hurt little birds. Nose buried in your books, nature just seemed dirty to you. God help you if you had to touch an animal in need, you might get germs."

"Shut the **** up Brent."

"Well Cal, today I'm gonna show you something. Check out this buck. This thing isn't wounded, it's dead. Even with Hope enjoying himself down there, do you really think this piece of meat suffers? Look at it's face. It's almost peaceful, isn't it?"

Cal forced a quick look. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Brent leaned on his gun and stared at Hope and the mutilated deer for a few minutes. Cal noticed that a strange pallor had come over Brent's face. It was something that he had never seen before in Brent, but Cal couldn't put his finger on what it was in his state. He was still dizzy from the sickness.

"Okay Hope, enough. Come on Cal, let's go. Help me drag this thing back home. There's still some useable meat on it."

Cal struggled dragging the deer back to the farmhouse. Blood covered his hands, and his shirt. Despite the slow going, and the feeling he was going to throw up again, something Cal saw in Brent's face made him want to prove that he could be strong for his brother, so he endured. The journey back to the farmhouse seemed endless. When they got back, Brent said "Cal, drag this down to the basement freezer for me, will ya?"

Cal swallowed his disgust and painfully dragged the carcass down the long stairs to the cellar. When he got back, Brent was sitting on the porch. He looked pensive. That was what Cal saw on his brother's face back in the woods.

"Cal, is there some beer left?"

"Yeah, want one?"

"Yeah, you should have one, you probably need it. Grab me a little whiskey from inside too, will ya, a large one?"

"Sure."

Cal came back with the whiskey, and opened a beer. It was getting late. He sat down on the porch with Brent and enjoyed a welcome swig from the bottle. As it always was with Brent, the day had been strange for Cal. Brent finished the longneck and started on the whiskey.

"Cal…"

"Yes, Brent?"

There was a long pause.

"Why did he do it?"

"I don't know, Brent."

The two brothers sipped their drinks and watched the sun set in silence. Meanwhile, Hope chased squirrels in the backyard, completely oblivious to the thought that they were often too elusive to be caught.