“Remember crime is a path that lands you in prison or the grave. Crime does not pay.”
“Alright, cut. That’s a wrap folks,” shouted the director as he motioned for the technicians to turn off the taping equipment.
“Thank God,” said Marge. “I’m getting sick of playing the damsel in distress every week.” She took a pack of cigarettes off the table nearby and shook one out.
“You play the part realistically, though,” smiled Ted, as he offered her a light.
Marge sucked on the cigarette and inhaled the smoke. “You should talk, buster. You get to play the heroic detective that always gets the girl. You’ve got it easy, Jack.
“You think it’s fun for me to get beaten up every week when I try to rescue you, Marge. A guy could die from so much pleasure.”
“Very funny. All you do it moan and groan, while Marv makes with the sound effects.”
“Alright,” shouted the director. “Break it up you two before I decide to break you up.”
“Lighten up, boss,” said Ted, as he lit his own cigarette. “Me and Marge were just having fun.”
“I don’t care,” said the director. “Pick up your checks and get out of here. I have a headache listening to you two.”
Marge grimaced as she ground out her cigarette and joined the line of actors and technicians heading for the front office to pick up their paychecks.
Ted just stood there for several minutes. His eyes moved around the room taking in all the equipment that was used to create the program. The shiny, block microphones still stood in the middle of the room on their stands with chairs strewn among them. The sound effects table stood in the back of the room covered with boxes of sand, coconut halves, suction cups, and prop guns. Over in the darkened corner sat the pile of recording equipment.
Finally, he shrugged his shoulders sadly and headed for the front office. The place was almost deserted. The only person remaining was Edna, the payroll lady.
“Here you go, Ted,” she said while extending a cream colored envelope towards him. Ted sadly took it from her. “It’s a little lighter than usual, Ted. The sponsor wants to move into television. They’re cutting their radio money.”
“Yeah, I know. Bob told me that last week. Told me that I should look for another job before they close down the show. Who in their right mind would hire an ugly bum like me?”
Edna’s face softened with a smile. “You’ll find something. I’m sure of it. The day is still young. Why don’t you go down the Clarh Studio on Oregon Drive? They’re looking for experience actors.”
“You mean sell out my artistic talent to television?” Ted thought about it for a minute. “Might as well try.”
“That’s the spirit. Show them that they can’t keep a good man down.” He nodded and reached for his hat to leave.
He walked quietly down the sidewalk with his hands in the pockets of his grey suit. The hustle and bustle of the city surrounded and enveloped him.
He turned in at Duffy’s Tavern, a little eating and drinking spot that took its name from a once popular radio show. He sat at the bar and ordered. Ted ate his hamburger slowly, trying to savor each bite. Even with a small bit of hope, the horizon still looked bleak for him. It did not help that there was a television on the bar, where a radio had been at one time.
After settling up his tab, Ted stepped back onto the street. He hailed a taxi. “Take me to the Clarh Studio.”
“Must be a popular place,” said the drive as he merged into traffic. “You’re the tenth person today who wanted to go there.” Ted did not feel any better as he settle back in the seat.
When the cab pulled up to the studio, there was of line of people up to the curb. Ted saw men and women, boy and girls, people of every age, size, and ethnicity. He even recognized several fellow radio actors and extras. Television was in town and they wanted to capitalize on it.
The line took hours to move. It was 7:30 before Ted got his turn. He was shown into a small rectangular room with three judges at a table at the far end.
“What do you do, sir?” asked the judge in the middle, a tired, worn out middle aged man.
“I play the main character in a detective radio show called…”
“We don’t need a name. We need to know if you can act. Have you had any experience other than radio? Have you ever been on the stage or anything?”
“No,” said Ted. “But I’m willing to try.”
The three judges looked at each other. Finally, the judge in the center spoke up. “We don’t think we can use you. You don’t have any acting other than radio and besides, crime dramas will never be as big on television as they were on radio. Next.”
Ted nodded and left the room. “Good luck,” he said as he passed the next applicant.
Once outside Ted turned back and looked sadly at the studio and the line of people in front of it. He shook his head and motioned for a cab.
It had started to rain as the cab drove through the darkened streets. Ted watched the people scramble for shelter as the rain came down harder and harder.
The rain reached torrential proportions as the cab stopped in front of the Paradise Towers. Ted quickly paid for his cab and ran into the building.
He wearily climbed the stairs, his grey suit dripping wet. He pulled out his key and opened the door to room 315.
Ted changed out of his wet clothes. He opened up the paper and started to look through the help wanted ads.
There was a knock at the door. Ted looked up with surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.
He opened the door and saw two large men in long overcoats standing in the doorway. The shots that followed were heard by everyone in the building.
When the police showed up the next morning, they interviewed everyone on the third floor. They found one man next door in room 314. His name was Max Tailor and the mob was after him.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
In the Darkness of the Night
Fog filled the night’s air and made it seem as though the darkness was moving in from all sides. The figure walked through the gathering fog steadily and with measured step. He, for I perceived it to be a “he”, walked past me without a sound.
Just a single glance at this man made me stop and turn to take another look. I turned to look, but the fog had already obscured his passing.
I tried to make sense of what I had seen, but it was hard for I had seen very little. The only thing I could really say for sure was that he was tall and the wide brimmed hat that he wore made him seem all the taller.
After a moment’s hesitation, I took off in pursuit of this figure for I had but one question in my mind, “What does such a man want on the waterfront at this time of night?”
I felt a strong sense of foreboding, but shook it off and continued in my pursuit.
The sound of water lapping against the docks should have warned me, but the fog confuses sound as well as sight.
I took a step and felt nothing under my foot. My entire body was beginning a slow descent, when I felt a tug at the back of my coat. My drop towards the water was arrested as quickly as it had begun.
I turned to see who my savior was and was surprised and even terrified to see that it was the man whom I pursued.
We were mere inches from one another and all I could see were his eyes. The eyes, his eyes had a cold, hard look to them. The eyes themselves were colorless, but the face that enclosed them was twisted in rage, not aimed at me but some other person or force.
I could see clearly, now, that besides the wide brimmed hat, he wore a dark colored scarf that covered the lower part of his face. He also wore a long dark overcoat that terminated near his ankles.
I tried to voice a thanks, but found my mouth dry and unusable. He nodded as though he knew what I wanted to say. He pointed with a gloved hand in the direction I should go. I nodded in return and he was gone into the fog once again.
I debate with myself as to whether I should continue my pursuit of the figure or continue my original journey to the warmth of my home. I decided at length to continue my pursuit.
I dived into the fog once again, being more careful this time.
At length, I came upon a large waterfront warehouse. My first impression was to pass by and continue my search for the man I had seen. However, the sound of voices arrested my steps and I entered the warehouse quietly.
I made my way towards a light that shone from among the crates and the voices that accompanied it. I made my way as stealthily as possible, but I sincerely doubt that anyone would have noticed my presence even if I had stomped about.
The attention of the three men in the lighted area was focused on the strangely garbed stranger. They had been in the process of opening several crates when he had obviously interrupted them.
As I looked on there was no sound, but that of the figure speaking. His voice was unlike that of any I had heard before, and I have had a fair amount of experience in that area. It was rough and it cut sharply through the air like the sound of a saw.
“I have warned you before,” said the man I had been following, “but you chose to ignore it. You have been poisoning the citizens of this fair City with your foul opium and I intend to stop you.”
“We don’t intend to be stopped by you or any other fool,” replied one of the men in a sharp tone. The speaker stood a full head taller than any other man. His appearances were rough and unmannered. His eyes were a piercing blue color and as cold and the blue ocean they resembled.
“Then I must take matters into my own hands.” With a flick of his gloved hands, the figure threw open his overcoat. The inside of his coat was full of pockets and those pockets in turn were full of many firearms, including revolvers and sawed-off shotguns.
Upon seeing this formidable personal armory, the opium smugglers drew their own weapons. The stranger reached for two sawed-off shotguns and leveled them. Both guns went off as one and the small warehouse was filled with thunder.
As the shooting started, I dived behind some crates and lay there as quietly as I could. Bullets smashed into the wood of the crates around me.
As quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped and there was silence. I peered over the top of the crates to see if things were all clear. The gunsmoke from the shootout was almost as thick as the fog outside. I could only see one figure standing and the rest were sprawled across the floor. As the smoke cleared, I recognized the lone living player in this crazy drama. It was the stranger who I had been following.
He was slumped against a pile of crates. Red blood stained the wood of the crate and made them a mud color. His arms hung limply at his side.
I made my way towards him carefully, almost fearfully. I was afraid that me might be dead, but I could hear him take a sharp breath.
He stood there leaning against the crates as if he was tired and only resting for a minute, my trained eye told me that there was something decidedly wrong.
“Here, let give you a hand,” I said moving forward to help him.
“No!” His voice was much softer than when he had spoken before and it was full of pain, both physical and mental. He pushed himself away from the boxes and tried to stand. His legs would not take his weight and he sunk towards the floor.
I rushed forward and caught him before he fit the ground. “See here, my good man. I have no intention of letting you die before I hear your story.”
“My story,” he said in a pained voice. His breath was ragged and took much effort. “My story is quite dull indeed, doctor.”
“Do you know me, then?” I asked as I looked at his wounds. His only response was a slight nod.
I reached up to pulled the scarf away, but he weakly pulled my hand away. Some of the hardness returned to his voice, “We must leave before the police arrive. Someone surely heard the shots.”
I nodded and helped him to his feet. After holstering his guns, the stranger leaned on me and we made our way into the fog.
He pointed the way, as I helped him walk. We made our way through alleys and down streets that had long been forgotten by most people.
We walked for what seemed like hours. We were forced to stop several times to avoid being seen.
We finally stopped in an alleyway. The stranger pressed a brick into the wall. After hesitating for a minute, the wall opened up before us and we entered.
The room was dimly lit by two gas jets on the wall. In what light there was, I was able to maneuver him into a large leather chair. After turning up the gas jets so that I could see, I again endeavored to remove the scarf.
This time he did not resist and in fact, helped me remove it. The face beneath was young and soft, but the eyes still showed a hardness that only comes with years of life experience. I knew that face.
I lit a candle and brought it close to examine the face.
He smiled in his pain and said, “I told you that my story was dull, doctor.”
I stared in shock. This man was no stranger to me. “Roger, my dear boy. My God, how did you end up like this? The last time that I saw you, you were at the top of your class in medical school.”
“Remember when my parents were gunned down?”
“Yes, you left shortly after that. I heard that you blamed yourself for not being there to stop it.”
He struggled for breath. “That’s true, doctor. I found out that the man who had killed them was looking for money to pay for opium. I decided to take the fight to him and those like him. There was nothing that the police could do.” He coughed violently.
“It seems as though I have failed.” He sighed and fell back onto the couch.
I stood there for several minutes looked at his still warm corpse. It amazed me how young life could be so wasted.
What is this world coming to that honest citizens must turn to violence find justice? Where is the justice in that?
Just a single glance at this man made me stop and turn to take another look. I turned to look, but the fog had already obscured his passing.
I tried to make sense of what I had seen, but it was hard for I had seen very little. The only thing I could really say for sure was that he was tall and the wide brimmed hat that he wore made him seem all the taller.
After a moment’s hesitation, I took off in pursuit of this figure for I had but one question in my mind, “What does such a man want on the waterfront at this time of night?”
I felt a strong sense of foreboding, but shook it off and continued in my pursuit.
The sound of water lapping against the docks should have warned me, but the fog confuses sound as well as sight.
I took a step and felt nothing under my foot. My entire body was beginning a slow descent, when I felt a tug at the back of my coat. My drop towards the water was arrested as quickly as it had begun.
I turned to see who my savior was and was surprised and even terrified to see that it was the man whom I pursued.
We were mere inches from one another and all I could see were his eyes. The eyes, his eyes had a cold, hard look to them. The eyes themselves were colorless, but the face that enclosed them was twisted in rage, not aimed at me but some other person or force.
I could see clearly, now, that besides the wide brimmed hat, he wore a dark colored scarf that covered the lower part of his face. He also wore a long dark overcoat that terminated near his ankles.
I tried to voice a thanks, but found my mouth dry and unusable. He nodded as though he knew what I wanted to say. He pointed with a gloved hand in the direction I should go. I nodded in return and he was gone into the fog once again.
I debate with myself as to whether I should continue my pursuit of the figure or continue my original journey to the warmth of my home. I decided at length to continue my pursuit.
I dived into the fog once again, being more careful this time.
At length, I came upon a large waterfront warehouse. My first impression was to pass by and continue my search for the man I had seen. However, the sound of voices arrested my steps and I entered the warehouse quietly.
I made my way towards a light that shone from among the crates and the voices that accompanied it. I made my way as stealthily as possible, but I sincerely doubt that anyone would have noticed my presence even if I had stomped about.
The attention of the three men in the lighted area was focused on the strangely garbed stranger. They had been in the process of opening several crates when he had obviously interrupted them.
As I looked on there was no sound, but that of the figure speaking. His voice was unlike that of any I had heard before, and I have had a fair amount of experience in that area. It was rough and it cut sharply through the air like the sound of a saw.
“I have warned you before,” said the man I had been following, “but you chose to ignore it. You have been poisoning the citizens of this fair City with your foul opium and I intend to stop you.”
“We don’t intend to be stopped by you or any other fool,” replied one of the men in a sharp tone. The speaker stood a full head taller than any other man. His appearances were rough and unmannered. His eyes were a piercing blue color and as cold and the blue ocean they resembled.
“Then I must take matters into my own hands.” With a flick of his gloved hands, the figure threw open his overcoat. The inside of his coat was full of pockets and those pockets in turn were full of many firearms, including revolvers and sawed-off shotguns.
Upon seeing this formidable personal armory, the opium smugglers drew their own weapons. The stranger reached for two sawed-off shotguns and leveled them. Both guns went off as one and the small warehouse was filled with thunder.
As the shooting started, I dived behind some crates and lay there as quietly as I could. Bullets smashed into the wood of the crates around me.
As quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped and there was silence. I peered over the top of the crates to see if things were all clear. The gunsmoke from the shootout was almost as thick as the fog outside. I could only see one figure standing and the rest were sprawled across the floor. As the smoke cleared, I recognized the lone living player in this crazy drama. It was the stranger who I had been following.
He was slumped against a pile of crates. Red blood stained the wood of the crate and made them a mud color. His arms hung limply at his side.
I made my way towards him carefully, almost fearfully. I was afraid that me might be dead, but I could hear him take a sharp breath.
He stood there leaning against the crates as if he was tired and only resting for a minute, my trained eye told me that there was something decidedly wrong.
“Here, let give you a hand,” I said moving forward to help him.
“No!” His voice was much softer than when he had spoken before and it was full of pain, both physical and mental. He pushed himself away from the boxes and tried to stand. His legs would not take his weight and he sunk towards the floor.
I rushed forward and caught him before he fit the ground. “See here, my good man. I have no intention of letting you die before I hear your story.”
“My story,” he said in a pained voice. His breath was ragged and took much effort. “My story is quite dull indeed, doctor.”
“Do you know me, then?” I asked as I looked at his wounds. His only response was a slight nod.
I reached up to pulled the scarf away, but he weakly pulled my hand away. Some of the hardness returned to his voice, “We must leave before the police arrive. Someone surely heard the shots.”
I nodded and helped him to his feet. After holstering his guns, the stranger leaned on me and we made our way into the fog.
He pointed the way, as I helped him walk. We made our way through alleys and down streets that had long been forgotten by most people.
We walked for what seemed like hours. We were forced to stop several times to avoid being seen.
We finally stopped in an alleyway. The stranger pressed a brick into the wall. After hesitating for a minute, the wall opened up before us and we entered.
The room was dimly lit by two gas jets on the wall. In what light there was, I was able to maneuver him into a large leather chair. After turning up the gas jets so that I could see, I again endeavored to remove the scarf.
This time he did not resist and in fact, helped me remove it. The face beneath was young and soft, but the eyes still showed a hardness that only comes with years of life experience. I knew that face.
I lit a candle and brought it close to examine the face.
He smiled in his pain and said, “I told you that my story was dull, doctor.”
I stared in shock. This man was no stranger to me. “Roger, my dear boy. My God, how did you end up like this? The last time that I saw you, you were at the top of your class in medical school.”
“Remember when my parents were gunned down?”
“Yes, you left shortly after that. I heard that you blamed yourself for not being there to stop it.”
He struggled for breath. “That’s true, doctor. I found out that the man who had killed them was looking for money to pay for opium. I decided to take the fight to him and those like him. There was nothing that the police could do.” He coughed violently.
“It seems as though I have failed.” He sighed and fell back onto the couch.
I stood there for several minutes looked at his still warm corpse. It amazed me how young life could be so wasted.
What is this world coming to that honest citizens must turn to violence find justice? Where is the justice in that?
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Spring 2008 Literary Magazine Guidelines
The Cornerstone Review is an annual literary journal published by the Cornerstone University English Society.
This journal aims to allow Cornerstone University students to display their literary and artistic talent.
Through the 2008 Spring semester we will be accepting submission of artwork, photography, poetry, song lyrics, short stories and literary essays. A panel of peers will judge the submissions, and the best examples of literary and artistic creativity and skill will be published.
The journal will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 28th – May 2nd) during Spring semester.
Submission Guidelines
Deadline:
Friday, April 4th
What to Submit:
· Visual Art—this category includes paintings, drawings, sculptures, pottery and photography.
· Poetry & Song Lyrics
· Short Stories (Fiction, Creative Non-fiction) and Essays—this category includes creative non-fiction, contemporary fiction, fantasy, sci-fi, etc.
Publication:
All entries will be judged by a panel of peers and the winning submissions will be published in the magazine. The magazine will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 28th – May 2nd).
Announcement of Winners:
All winners will receive a letter in their school mailbox no later than April 25th.
Submission Guidelines:
All submissions:
· Must be in a digital format and emailed to Lindsey Jacobs at Lindsey_r_jacobs@cornerstone.edu by the deadline. You are responsible to convert non-digital artwork into a digital format.
· Entrants are restricted to three submissions per category.
Visual Art:
Each entry must be in a JPEG or GIF format. Make sure the title of the work is included in the filename.
Song Lyrics & Poems:
Must be Word Documents—preferably in Times New Roman, 12 point font, and double spaced. If this will not suit your poem or lyrics you may use a different format but make sure it is absolutely necessary.
Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the short story should be in the header on each page.
Short Stories (Fiction, Creative Non-fiction) & Essays:
All stories or essays must be 1,500 words or less. All submission must be saved as Word Documents in Times New Roman font, 12 point font, double spaced.
Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the short story should be in the header on each page.
This journal aims to allow Cornerstone University students to display their literary and artistic talent.
Through the 2008 Spring semester we will be accepting submission of artwork, photography, poetry, song lyrics, short stories and literary essays. A panel of peers will judge the submissions, and the best examples of literary and artistic creativity and skill will be published.
The journal will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 28th – May 2nd) during Spring semester.
Submission Guidelines
Deadline:
Friday, April 4th
What to Submit:
· Visual Art—this category includes paintings, drawings, sculptures, pottery and photography.
· Poetry & Song Lyrics
· Short Stories (Fiction, Creative Non-fiction) and Essays—this category includes creative non-fiction, contemporary fiction, fantasy, sci-fi, etc.
Publication:
All entries will be judged by a panel of peers and the winning submissions will be published in the magazine. The magazine will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 28th – May 2nd).
Announcement of Winners:
All winners will receive a letter in their school mailbox no later than April 25th.
Submission Guidelines:
All submissions:
· Must be in a digital format and emailed to Lindsey Jacobs at Lindsey_r_jacobs@cornerstone.edu by the deadline. You are responsible to convert non-digital artwork into a digital format.
· Entrants are restricted to three submissions per category.
Visual Art:
Each entry must be in a JPEG or GIF format. Make sure the title of the work is included in the filename.
Song Lyrics & Poems:
Must be Word Documents—preferably in Times New Roman, 12 point font, and double spaced. If this will not suit your poem or lyrics you may use a different format but make sure it is absolutely necessary.
Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the short story should be in the header on each page.
Short Stories (Fiction, Creative Non-fiction) & Essays:
All stories or essays must be 1,500 words or less. All submission must be saved as Word Documents in Times New Roman font, 12 point font, double spaced.
Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the short story should be in the header on each page.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Cello Strings
Effortlessly,
fingers fly across the strings;
gently,
graciously,
dancing like a cat.
The bow caresses them
having union with wood.
The sound that comes forth
is soul-being.
I am in adoring love
with the intersection
of strings and fingers.
fingers fly across the strings;
gently,
graciously,
dancing like a cat.
The bow caresses them
having union with wood.
The sound that comes forth
is soul-being.
I am in adoring love
with the intersection
of strings and fingers.
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Day the Artist Won
She dreamt of running through the field
Of soaring above the sky
And dancing with starlight
But duty kept her bound to the earth
In a skirt
Her hair unbraided
Her face unadorned
When she slipped out into the moonlight
She saw sour faces—frowning
Their lips—whispering
The whispers guided her hands
As she tore out the artist
And fell apart
Of soaring above the sky
And dancing with starlight
But duty kept her bound to the earth
In a skirt
Her hair unbraided
Her face unadorned
When she slipped out into the moonlight
She saw sour faces—frowning
Their lips—whispering
The whispers guided her hands
As she tore out the artist
And fell apart
Monday, December 03, 2007
Exchange
i break a nail;
he reaches down, picks it up,
and offers me his.
he pulls a muscle;
i touch it lightly, kiss it,
and give him mine.
i puncture my heart;
he weighs down his spirit;
we look up, smile, and exchange.
he reaches down, picks it up,
and offers me his.
he pulls a muscle;
i touch it lightly, kiss it,
and give him mine.
i puncture my heart;
he weighs down his spirit;
we look up, smile, and exchange.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Awake with OK Computer
By Lindsey Renée Jacobs
“please could you stop the noise i’m trying to get some REST”
1:23 am the red numbers of the clock blink at me. The neighbors upstairs are still awake. Groan, creak, clunk, the sounds of living in an apartment. Did they switch a light on? Clank, clunk, clatter, laughter.
Are they hosting? Should I yell at them again? I’ll wait.
“in the neon sign scrolling up and down/ i am born again”
If I open my eyes will the sounds be less distracting?
Why does the room look that early morning blue color? It’s that street lamp outside the window. Damn safety. It’s never dark enough here. Even the sky is bleached from the ceaseless light.
The Open sign for the sports bar across the street is struggling to stay alive, morphing into a strobe light. The window’s blinds keep lighting up red then yellow then red again, endlessly changing. Maybe if I wedge this blanket over the window it will be better? It only muffles the light so the room is now a dusty black but it’s an improvement.
“you watch your feet for cracks in the pavement”
Did I sleep for a few minutes? I don’t know, but I’m awake again. Lyrics from OK Computer keeping buzzing through my head, “This is what you get. This is what you get.” This is what I get for what?
Why can’t I sleep? The neighbors upstairs haven’t made any noises for a while. Maybe I’m being punished. I did yell at them earlier to “Shut the hell up!” They were making the apartment shake, stomping around loudly and laughing hysterically. I don’t think those were just the sounds of living.
Is a Christian allowed to shout “hell” like that? Probably not. I think it let them know how serious I was though.
Maybe I’m being punished for not being more neighborly. I only interact with them when I yell through the ceiling to shut. I don’t think I’ve ever even introduced myself. But it’s a city. It’s all about living as anonymously as possible.
“a song to keep us warm”
I hate sleeping alone. I used to imagine that an angel was sleeping with me at night when I was little. I imagined his wings wrapped around my frail body keeping me warm, shielding me. I’m too old for that now.
I don’t want to sleep alone. These blankets can’t give off their own heat or whisper promises of protection.
One of my friends used to sleep with a knife in the drawer beside her bed just encase someone broke in. She doesn’t anymore now that she doesn’t sleep alone.
Maybe I should ask her if she still has that knife, just in case.
“the emptiest of feelings”
“An awful, kind of, Sunday hollow feeling.” What was that from? I like it.
Sundays at my parents’ house were like that. Now I feel it all the time.
Why do I feel like this? There doesn’t seem to be a reason. I like to believe in cause and effect, but maybe this doesn’t have a cause.
Or maybe, I just don’t want to admit it.
“fitter happier more productive/ … sleeping well (no bad dreams)/ no paranoia/ … No longer afraid of the dark/ Or midday shadows/ Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate …”
What are the next words? “Nothing so childish” I think. Nothing so childish as what?
“i trust i can rely on your vote”
Who were they talking about at work today? Or yesterday, by now. One of the presidential candidates I think. Maybe I should start looking into them. They keep talking about them at work.
I hate watching TV or reading the news, though. They’re so addictive.
But, I think I should start looking into the presidential candidates.
either way you turn i’ll be there”
I still miss him. Can I admit that? I wouldn’t tell anyone, but I still do. Not always. Just when I feel like I’m losing it. He could always talk me down. Make me reasonable. I’m so unreasonable.
I miss him when I feel like Hesse’s Siddhartha. When I think all of this is not worthy of me, that it all lies, it all stinks, it all stinks of lies, it all pretends to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and all it is, is concealed putrefaction[1]. When the world feels like a horrible delusion and I’m sunk in despair I miss him. He’d give me hope again. He’d make me see beauty again. He’d remind me to love again, and to forgive the world for being imperfect.
Now I can’t even forgive myself for being imperfect, and the world tastes bitter and life feels like torture[2]. But he can’t help that. He can’t help that he left either. Everyone leaves eventually.
“a heart that’s full up like a landfill./ A job that slowly kills you./ Bruises that wont heal.”
5:03 am. My alarm will be blaring in an hour. I haven’t slept yet. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to.
My roommate will be happy that I’ll turn my alarm off right away. She’s a light sleeper. She doesn’t have to be up until 7:30 am.
What will I wear? Probably my black dress pants and white silk shirt; those will look nice. I feel like being monochromatic today. I wonder whose work they’ll have me editing?
Just thought of what that kid said back in college.
“For your career have you considered ‘critic’? Not art critic or book critic. Just critic,” he said.
“Critic is my being. It need not be my career,” I said, but I guess it is now. It’s working out for the most part.
“no one else would know”
Boom. Shutter. Grate. The garbage truck is here now emptying out the dumpster. I might as well get up. It’s nearly six and there is no way I can be louder than the dumpster. But how do I turn off this alarm? I think my roommate said that I have to hit the cancel button and then the alarm button. Why do they make it so hard?
The red alarm light went out so this better not start roaring while I’m in the shower. 5:39 am and I’m already getting ready. When I’m done with the shower maybe I’ll sit outside and watch the sunrise.
Who knows? I always intend to.
I think I’ll listen to Radiohead in the shower. Good thing the bathroom isn’t right next to our room.
“i’m on a roll./ i’m on a roll this time./ i feel my luck could change.”
Dream on.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
To Be Moved
“How could you be so stupid?” He looked me in the eye with that cold stern look he has and scowled in utter disapproval. And then it began, another one of his rants.
His words hung in the air, meaningless. They came out of his mouth and just sat there. They didn’t move; they surely didn’t move me. I was immune to his words by now. I’d heard them so often. They were always the same, but usually they at least moved something. Not this time though. Today they fell flat. Today, they were powerless.
Yes, I was listening to his words, but I wasn’t really hearing them. I didn’t need to, and I certainly didn’t want to. Instead, I heard the birds. They weren’t loud like him. They were distant, mysterious, cheerful.
There was one far off to my left who kept singing this patterned melody. The pitch was so high that it pierced my ears, but it was so musical that I couldn’t help but be his audience. After each song, a scattered group of birds would chatter in response.
They listened so well. They were always silent and tentative when the lone bird sang, and they were always ready with the right response. It was like a dance, what they did, their melodies intermingling and swirling together in the air. Their voices moved things. Their voices moved me.
If only I could move people like that. If only my voice held such power and understanding. If only I could actually say what I meant.
“What were you thinking?” By now he was pacing. He looked like a naval sergeant, steaming with anger. His face was even starting to turn red. I wanted to run and hide. But that’s what I always wanted when he yelled, when his words moved me. But not today. Not this time. I would stand still and strong. I would not be moved.
I noticed the leaves on the trees, some falling, others merely waving. They knew my battle, but they fought against the wind. Every day they fought for their place on those trees. Although, every day they grew weaker.
The wind blew, and one of the leaves broke free. Perhaps it lost the battle against the wind, but it appeared to win against the tree. Maybe that was a better analogy. Freedom. I smiled gently as the leaf fell clumsily to the ground.
“Are you even paying attention?” He came up to my face again, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pushed me to the ground. I could hear the leaf mourn as the wind scraped it across the crisp lawn. And then it fell, right off the edge of the bank and into the pond. It made no sound.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
I pity the rain
I pity the rain,
unmasked and laid bare,
naked, transparent,
with nothing to wear.
I pity the rain,
compelled to the ground,
helpless for mercy,
its destiny bound.
I pity the rain,
though needless it be.
I pity the rain,
which once pitied me.
unmasked and laid bare,
naked, transparent,
with nothing to wear.
I pity the rain,
compelled to the ground,
helpless for mercy,
its destiny bound.
I pity the rain,
though needless it be.
I pity the rain,
which once pitied me.
Monday, October 01, 2007
The Eye of the Eagle
Howdy, folks. My name is Ben Carpenter. My old man runs a small spread call the Circle K ranch here in Eagle Pass in New Mexico Territory.
You probably wonder what all this has to do with the story that I am about to tell you. Well, it has a lot to do with it. You see, though my father taught me everything about roping and riding, he never taught me how to shoot. He believed that…well, that if I didn’t know how to shoot I would not become a gunslinger. That same was true for most of my friends. You see, most of our food was domestic beef, chicken, and salt pork. You’ll see how important this is later on.
Well, I’d better get on with the story. It all began about twenty years ago when I was twelve years old. Back then Pa only owned the local stables.
It was a bright June day when Sheriff Jackie Ross rode into town. When people took one look at him they turned their back on him, every man one and all. The problem was that though he was tall, handsome, and lean; his skin color was not to their liking. For you see, Sheriff Ross was black.
He rode his small brown and white striped mustang to the jail, which faced the main street and was situated between and dwarfed by two saloons. Once there, he unloaded his supplies and made himself at home.
That night at dinner Pa made a big row about having a Negro for a sheriff.
“What do those stupid politicians know sending us a black man for a sheriff,” said he. “The rumor is that lots of other people feel the same. Tom Brenner, the blacksmith, is getting signatures for a petition to send to the governor to recall the sheriff.” Pa was a tall, clean shaven man with strong muscles hardened by years of ranching in his youth. He had strong feeling towards many things, including Negroes.
“How is the sheriff taking this conspiracy against him?” asked Ma. She was the only one who dared argue with him when he was angry.
“He doesn’t seem to care,” laughed Pa. “He acts as though this has happened to him before. And it probably has, it probably has.” Pa then lapsed into great laughter at that ironic thought.
You must remember that this was a time of discrimination, a time that has long past us, thank God.
After dinner and chores, I ran over to our barn. It was here that I and several of my friends met every night. We made a club out of it. I was the president of the club for the week, Dick Hollister was vice president, John and Bob Edge and Dave Parker were members.
As was our custom, we met in a corner of the barn where Dick and I used several crates with a board on top for a desk. The other boys sat on crates arranged in front of the “desk”. Once everyone was seated, I rapped a hammer on the board for attention.
“What do you think of the new sheriff?” I asked.
“Well,” started Dave, the oldest and smartest of our club, “there is a saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I think that goes for people too.”
“You mean that if a man is dressed like a rich man, he might be just a poor man,” demanded John.
“That’s not exactly a good example,” replied Dave. “Take a look at old Mister Pond for example.” Mr. Pond was an old man who was feared by the children of the town because of his angry face, until one day he pulled a child out from under the wheels of a runway wagon.
“I agree with Dave,” I said. “I suggest we give the sheriff a chance, but,” I continued in a conspiratorial manner, “we’ll keep an eye on him.”
We all agreed and after discussing other things we broke up for the night.
We were as good as our promise. Each day we took turns watching, so that all the time there was at least two boys watching him. During the week nothing extraordinary happened except the usual town drunks and fights when the cowpokes came to town.
The exception was Sunday. After lunch, Sheriff Ross saddled his horse and headed out of town. Since it was Sunday all of us were watching. The sheriff was only walking his horse so we followed him on foot. We figured that since he didn’t have his bedroll and there was a “Gone Hunting” sign on the door of the jail. He was not leaving town.
The sheriff traveled for several miles until he came to the woods. From there he moved farther in. It looked as though he really was going to go hunting. As quiet as Indians we followed him until he stopped in a large clearing. Here he got off his horse and tethered him to a tree. Then, opening his saddlebags, he removed five blocks of wood with strings attached. He tied these blocks to a low hanging branch on the far side of the clearing. Next, he returned to where his horse was and whirled to face the targets he had erected.
Suddenly, with lighting speed, he whipped out his revolver and emptied his gun into the targets. Each target bucked and jumped as a bullet tore into it. All five of us looked at each other in surprise. Then, as he shifted his weight, Bob broke a twig that rested under his foot.
Sheriff Ross pivoted on his heels when he heard the sound. He had only had time to load three of the chambers, but he snapped it shut and held it at his waist, cocked and ready.
“Who’s there? Come on out,” he ordered.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked out into the clearing, followed by the others. Once he saw us the sheriff, slowly let the hammer down on his revolver. He returned to reloading his piece.
“So what is it that you boys want?” he asked nice enough. “Did you come to report to the townspeople of my actions?”
“No, sir,” I said. “We’re a club and like to come into the woods.”
The sheriff nodded and smiled as though he saw right through my story.
After a moments of silence, he said, “Do, you boys, know how to shoot?”
“No, sir,” I replied glad to change the subject.
“Call me Jack, not ‘sir’. How come you don’t know how to shoot?”
“Well, Jack, our fathers never taught us. My father believes that if I don’t know how to shoot, I won’t become a gunfighter.”
Sheriff Ross silently chuckled to himself. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “I’ve been a sheriff in many different towns for going on ten years and never once was I in a showdown. My Daddy taught me to shoot when I was strong enough to hold a gun. And since then, I have only killed two men and both times it was in the line of duty. Technically, I’m not a gunslinger, I’m a peace officer.”
He stood there for several minutes, thinking. When looked back at us the smile had returned. “So, you guys, want to learn how to shoot?”
That afternoon the sheriff taught us all the basics of shooting. He started us off with a rifle and let each of us take turns using it. By five o’clock, the lesson was over. We agreed to return every Sunday for another lesson.
Before we split up, Sheriff Ross said, “Remember, don’t tell you parents, they might not understand. Let’s wait until you have a chance to show how good you are. Oh, and one last thing. Does your club have a name?”
“No, we just formed a club,” said Dick.”
“Well, every club needs a name. How does Eagle Scouts sound?”
The five of us exchanged glances and nodded.
“Good,” smiled the sheriff. “See you later, Eagle Scouts.” With that he stepped in the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, and after tipping his hat to us, he turned his horse and headed for town
The practice sessions continued for about another month, during which time none of the club breathed a word of it, especially to our parents. By this time, all of us had become experts with the sheriff’s rifle, even to being able to shoot from different positions.
On July 3rd as John, Bob, and I lounged in front of Eagle Pass General Store, two wagons from the Blue Arrow mine showed up and pulled around to the front of the Western Bank. As the two men who drove the wagons and two of the bank clerks unloaded the contents of the wagons, the owner of the mine, Mr. Kane, made a beeline for the Sheriff’s office.
Later that night, Pa told us that the Blue Arrow Mine had struck a rich vein and Mr. Kane wanted to ship the gold out as soon as possible. But he had decided to wait until after the holiday and realized that the bank vault was probably the safest place to store it in the meantime. Pa also told us that the bank president, Mr. Ward, and two of his clerks were going to stay at the bank to keep an eye on the gold. There was no mention of what precautions the sheriff was taking. Pa had not talked about him for a couple of days and I figured he thought it would be best to ignore the sheriff.
The rest of the dinner conversation was taken up with plans for the huge town picnic that was planned for tomorrow to celebrate Independence Day.
Throughout the rest of the meal I could not help but think that someone might try to steal the gold. If a person was desperate enough he would not let three men stand between him and that gold.
The next day, besides being Sunday, was Independence Day. Immediately after church services, everyone returned to their home to get the food they had prepared for the town picnic. By noon everyone from town, except the three people from the bank, had gathered at the Chapel clearing.
It was a huge clearing the size of the interior of a large church I once saw in St. Louis. It sat three miles from town and near a stream. There was even a field nearby where some of the men would play horseshoes or ball.
While the women fixed lunch, we men went to the stream to wash. When I, Pa, and the rest returned; blanket had been spread out and covered with food. I had waited all year for this so I dug in. As a looked for a shady place to sit to enjoy my meal, I saw the sheriff. He wore a light grey, almost silver suit, complete with white hat and black string tie. However, I knew he still had his gun on because his coat bulged where it hung under his coat.
As I passed he whispered, “Get the Eagles and meet me at the usual place.”
Several minutes later, we all were gathered in the clearing that we used regularly as a shooting range.
“Boys, yesterday a stranger came into town,” he said. Today, I did not see him among the crowd, so I’ll bet that right now the bank is being robbed. I think we should get back to town.”
“Why us, sheriff?” asked Dick.
“Because you boys are the only ones who will believe me and you’re the only ones I can trust.”
The five of us exchanges glances and decided to follow the sheriff.
Ten minutes later, we were in town. We walked through the back streets until we reached the bank. Once there we looked in the side window and saw six masked men in the bank, robbing it. The men were dressed in identical long white desert coats and white hats and wore red bandanas to hide their faces. The banker and one of his clerks sat in a corner, tied and gagged.
The sheriff motioned us to follow him and we made our way to the back door of the jail through side streets. We had to be careful because the jail was right across the street from the bank.
Once in the back of the jail, the sheriff said, “We need to stop those men. All the tricks I taught you boys will come in handy.” Then he started to pass out Winchester rifles and belts of ammunition.
“We can’t kill anyone,” I objected.
“You don’t need to,” the sheriff replied. I don’t want you boys to shoot the robbers unless you have to, otherwise shoot around them.”
“Alright,” I replied. “What do you want us to do?”
The sheriff smiled and said, “I want each one of you men on the buildings directly across from the bank so you can cover it.” We all returned the smile when he called us men. “I’ll take a place by the side of the bank and draw their fire from there. I’ll give you five minutes to get to your positions. When I want you to open fire, I’ll signal you.” We all nodded and moved out.
Outside, I went to the back of the Pink Lady Saloon and climbed the stairs that led to the roof. Once on the roof, I crawled to the edge that faced the street and placed the Winchester next to me. I took off the belt of bullets and laid it on the roof beside me.
Below on the street, Sheriff Ross was standing at the side of the bank. The robbers were loading their illegal gains onto their horses when he stepped onto the porch of the bank; all six men whirled around in surprise.
Before they could move for their guns, Sheriff Ross said in a quiet, even tone, “I wouldn’t go for my gun if I were you.” His face was has hard set. Every fiber in his body was tense, waiting for robbers to make one false move. “You men are covered by my deputies.”
“You’re bluffing,” said one of the men, the tallest one.
“You free to find out,” replied Sheriff Ross. “Otherwise, I want you to drop your guns and march to the jail.”
“No nigger’s going to tell me what to do,” exploded another of the thieves as he drew his revolver.
Before the man even has his pistol part way out of his holster, the sheriff had drawn his own revolver and fired as he retreated back around the corner of the bank. The man who had tried to draw fell wounded. His comrades dragged him to the opposite corner of the bank and opened fire on the sheriff, who for his part waved to us.
At that moment, I was ready. I jerked down the lever on the rifle, loading and cocking the rifle. I aimed at the wall above the heads of the thieves and pulled the trigger. The criminals ducked down in surprise when the round hit and tried to return fire. That was impossible because of our sniper positions.
I was excited. It was my first gun battle. All those hours of training and practice had paid off. As I fought the recoil, I again yanked on the lever and fired again.
When one of the men tried to fire at us on the roofs, the sheriff winged him. After that I think it became apparent to the other men that if they stayed they would be shot. So, they took their chances.
They came out firing and leapt onto their horses and tried to make a break for it. Sheriff Ross bolted from the protection of the bank and jumped onto another of the getaway horse and tore after the thieves, gun blasting.
By the time the five of us made our way to the street, we saw the rest of it. When the shooting started in town, the people at the picnic remembered the gold in the bank and grabbed horses to return. The fleeing thieves had run smack dab into a band of citizens returning hurriedly from the picnic with guns drawn. The thieves had reined up and surrendered, returned to town peaceably.
Once the criminals were in prison, Sheriff Ross recounted the story to the townspeople, all of whom had returned. Everyone had mixed feelings. It turned out that one of the clerks had told some friends about the gold and the picnic and had helped in the robbery. The banker and the mine owner were grateful to us for saving the gold. Our parents, especially our mothers, were appalled. My father was angry that I had learned to shoot, but he changed his mind when the banker and the mine owner offered us monetary rewards. That really helped to change Pa’s mind. Everyone was impressed with the sheriff, even though he was black. Not another word was heard about the petition to the governor.
Life returned to normal pretty much. Pa put the reward money together with some money he had saved up and bought the Circle K Ranch. Jackie Ross remained the sheriff and we remained deputies. We had many adventures together.
This story has a moral. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a man by his skin color. It makes no difference if a person is white, black, red, or yellow they are all Americans.
Today, I am Sheriff Ben Carpenter. The things that I learned from that encounter stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’ve been a sheriff for twenty years and I’ve only killed three men in self-defense, in the line of duty. It’s the person that kills, not the gun. Remember that.
You probably wonder what all this has to do with the story that I am about to tell you. Well, it has a lot to do with it. You see, though my father taught me everything about roping and riding, he never taught me how to shoot. He believed that…well, that if I didn’t know how to shoot I would not become a gunslinger. That same was true for most of my friends. You see, most of our food was domestic beef, chicken, and salt pork. You’ll see how important this is later on.
Well, I’d better get on with the story. It all began about twenty years ago when I was twelve years old. Back then Pa only owned the local stables.
It was a bright June day when Sheriff Jackie Ross rode into town. When people took one look at him they turned their back on him, every man one and all. The problem was that though he was tall, handsome, and lean; his skin color was not to their liking. For you see, Sheriff Ross was black.
He rode his small brown and white striped mustang to the jail, which faced the main street and was situated between and dwarfed by two saloons. Once there, he unloaded his supplies and made himself at home.
That night at dinner Pa made a big row about having a Negro for a sheriff.
“What do those stupid politicians know sending us a black man for a sheriff,” said he. “The rumor is that lots of other people feel the same. Tom Brenner, the blacksmith, is getting signatures for a petition to send to the governor to recall the sheriff.” Pa was a tall, clean shaven man with strong muscles hardened by years of ranching in his youth. He had strong feeling towards many things, including Negroes.
“How is the sheriff taking this conspiracy against him?” asked Ma. She was the only one who dared argue with him when he was angry.
“He doesn’t seem to care,” laughed Pa. “He acts as though this has happened to him before. And it probably has, it probably has.” Pa then lapsed into great laughter at that ironic thought.
You must remember that this was a time of discrimination, a time that has long past us, thank God.
After dinner and chores, I ran over to our barn. It was here that I and several of my friends met every night. We made a club out of it. I was the president of the club for the week, Dick Hollister was vice president, John and Bob Edge and Dave Parker were members.
As was our custom, we met in a corner of the barn where Dick and I used several crates with a board on top for a desk. The other boys sat on crates arranged in front of the “desk”. Once everyone was seated, I rapped a hammer on the board for attention.
“What do you think of the new sheriff?” I asked.
“Well,” started Dave, the oldest and smartest of our club, “there is a saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I think that goes for people too.”
“You mean that if a man is dressed like a rich man, he might be just a poor man,” demanded John.
“That’s not exactly a good example,” replied Dave. “Take a look at old Mister Pond for example.” Mr. Pond was an old man who was feared by the children of the town because of his angry face, until one day he pulled a child out from under the wheels of a runway wagon.
“I agree with Dave,” I said. “I suggest we give the sheriff a chance, but,” I continued in a conspiratorial manner, “we’ll keep an eye on him.”
We all agreed and after discussing other things we broke up for the night.
We were as good as our promise. Each day we took turns watching, so that all the time there was at least two boys watching him. During the week nothing extraordinary happened except the usual town drunks and fights when the cowpokes came to town.
The exception was Sunday. After lunch, Sheriff Ross saddled his horse and headed out of town. Since it was Sunday all of us were watching. The sheriff was only walking his horse so we followed him on foot. We figured that since he didn’t have his bedroll and there was a “Gone Hunting” sign on the door of the jail. He was not leaving town.
The sheriff traveled for several miles until he came to the woods. From there he moved farther in. It looked as though he really was going to go hunting. As quiet as Indians we followed him until he stopped in a large clearing. Here he got off his horse and tethered him to a tree. Then, opening his saddlebags, he removed five blocks of wood with strings attached. He tied these blocks to a low hanging branch on the far side of the clearing. Next, he returned to where his horse was and whirled to face the targets he had erected.
Suddenly, with lighting speed, he whipped out his revolver and emptied his gun into the targets. Each target bucked and jumped as a bullet tore into it. All five of us looked at each other in surprise. Then, as he shifted his weight, Bob broke a twig that rested under his foot.
Sheriff Ross pivoted on his heels when he heard the sound. He had only had time to load three of the chambers, but he snapped it shut and held it at his waist, cocked and ready.
“Who’s there? Come on out,” he ordered.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked out into the clearing, followed by the others. Once he saw us the sheriff, slowly let the hammer down on his revolver. He returned to reloading his piece.
“So what is it that you boys want?” he asked nice enough. “Did you come to report to the townspeople of my actions?”
“No, sir,” I said. “We’re a club and like to come into the woods.”
The sheriff nodded and smiled as though he saw right through my story.
After a moments of silence, he said, “Do, you boys, know how to shoot?”
“No, sir,” I replied glad to change the subject.
“Call me Jack, not ‘sir’. How come you don’t know how to shoot?”
“Well, Jack, our fathers never taught us. My father believes that if I don’t know how to shoot, I won’t become a gunfighter.”
Sheriff Ross silently chuckled to himself. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “I’ve been a sheriff in many different towns for going on ten years and never once was I in a showdown. My Daddy taught me to shoot when I was strong enough to hold a gun. And since then, I have only killed two men and both times it was in the line of duty. Technically, I’m not a gunslinger, I’m a peace officer.”
He stood there for several minutes, thinking. When looked back at us the smile had returned. “So, you guys, want to learn how to shoot?”
That afternoon the sheriff taught us all the basics of shooting. He started us off with a rifle and let each of us take turns using it. By five o’clock, the lesson was over. We agreed to return every Sunday for another lesson.
Before we split up, Sheriff Ross said, “Remember, don’t tell you parents, they might not understand. Let’s wait until you have a chance to show how good you are. Oh, and one last thing. Does your club have a name?”
“No, we just formed a club,” said Dick.”
“Well, every club needs a name. How does Eagle Scouts sound?”
The five of us exchanged glances and nodded.
“Good,” smiled the sheriff. “See you later, Eagle Scouts.” With that he stepped in the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, and after tipping his hat to us, he turned his horse and headed for town
The practice sessions continued for about another month, during which time none of the club breathed a word of it, especially to our parents. By this time, all of us had become experts with the sheriff’s rifle, even to being able to shoot from different positions.
On July 3rd as John, Bob, and I lounged in front of Eagle Pass General Store, two wagons from the Blue Arrow mine showed up and pulled around to the front of the Western Bank. As the two men who drove the wagons and two of the bank clerks unloaded the contents of the wagons, the owner of the mine, Mr. Kane, made a beeline for the Sheriff’s office.
Later that night, Pa told us that the Blue Arrow Mine had struck a rich vein and Mr. Kane wanted to ship the gold out as soon as possible. But he had decided to wait until after the holiday and realized that the bank vault was probably the safest place to store it in the meantime. Pa also told us that the bank president, Mr. Ward, and two of his clerks were going to stay at the bank to keep an eye on the gold. There was no mention of what precautions the sheriff was taking. Pa had not talked about him for a couple of days and I figured he thought it would be best to ignore the sheriff.
The rest of the dinner conversation was taken up with plans for the huge town picnic that was planned for tomorrow to celebrate Independence Day.
Throughout the rest of the meal I could not help but think that someone might try to steal the gold. If a person was desperate enough he would not let three men stand between him and that gold.
The next day, besides being Sunday, was Independence Day. Immediately after church services, everyone returned to their home to get the food they had prepared for the town picnic. By noon everyone from town, except the three people from the bank, had gathered at the Chapel clearing.
It was a huge clearing the size of the interior of a large church I once saw in St. Louis. It sat three miles from town and near a stream. There was even a field nearby where some of the men would play horseshoes or ball.
While the women fixed lunch, we men went to the stream to wash. When I, Pa, and the rest returned; blanket had been spread out and covered with food. I had waited all year for this so I dug in. As a looked for a shady place to sit to enjoy my meal, I saw the sheriff. He wore a light grey, almost silver suit, complete with white hat and black string tie. However, I knew he still had his gun on because his coat bulged where it hung under his coat.
As I passed he whispered, “Get the Eagles and meet me at the usual place.”
Several minutes later, we all were gathered in the clearing that we used regularly as a shooting range.
“Boys, yesterday a stranger came into town,” he said. Today, I did not see him among the crowd, so I’ll bet that right now the bank is being robbed. I think we should get back to town.”
“Why us, sheriff?” asked Dick.
“Because you boys are the only ones who will believe me and you’re the only ones I can trust.”
The five of us exchanges glances and decided to follow the sheriff.
Ten minutes later, we were in town. We walked through the back streets until we reached the bank. Once there we looked in the side window and saw six masked men in the bank, robbing it. The men were dressed in identical long white desert coats and white hats and wore red bandanas to hide their faces. The banker and one of his clerks sat in a corner, tied and gagged.
The sheriff motioned us to follow him and we made our way to the back door of the jail through side streets. We had to be careful because the jail was right across the street from the bank.
Once in the back of the jail, the sheriff said, “We need to stop those men. All the tricks I taught you boys will come in handy.” Then he started to pass out Winchester rifles and belts of ammunition.
“We can’t kill anyone,” I objected.
“You don’t need to,” the sheriff replied. I don’t want you boys to shoot the robbers unless you have to, otherwise shoot around them.”
“Alright,” I replied. “What do you want us to do?”
The sheriff smiled and said, “I want each one of you men on the buildings directly across from the bank so you can cover it.” We all returned the smile when he called us men. “I’ll take a place by the side of the bank and draw their fire from there. I’ll give you five minutes to get to your positions. When I want you to open fire, I’ll signal you.” We all nodded and moved out.
Outside, I went to the back of the Pink Lady Saloon and climbed the stairs that led to the roof. Once on the roof, I crawled to the edge that faced the street and placed the Winchester next to me. I took off the belt of bullets and laid it on the roof beside me.
Below on the street, Sheriff Ross was standing at the side of the bank. The robbers were loading their illegal gains onto their horses when he stepped onto the porch of the bank; all six men whirled around in surprise.
Before they could move for their guns, Sheriff Ross said in a quiet, even tone, “I wouldn’t go for my gun if I were you.” His face was has hard set. Every fiber in his body was tense, waiting for robbers to make one false move. “You men are covered by my deputies.”
“You’re bluffing,” said one of the men, the tallest one.
“You free to find out,” replied Sheriff Ross. “Otherwise, I want you to drop your guns and march to the jail.”
“No nigger’s going to tell me what to do,” exploded another of the thieves as he drew his revolver.
Before the man even has his pistol part way out of his holster, the sheriff had drawn his own revolver and fired as he retreated back around the corner of the bank. The man who had tried to draw fell wounded. His comrades dragged him to the opposite corner of the bank and opened fire on the sheriff, who for his part waved to us.
At that moment, I was ready. I jerked down the lever on the rifle, loading and cocking the rifle. I aimed at the wall above the heads of the thieves and pulled the trigger. The criminals ducked down in surprise when the round hit and tried to return fire. That was impossible because of our sniper positions.
I was excited. It was my first gun battle. All those hours of training and practice had paid off. As I fought the recoil, I again yanked on the lever and fired again.
When one of the men tried to fire at us on the roofs, the sheriff winged him. After that I think it became apparent to the other men that if they stayed they would be shot. So, they took their chances.
They came out firing and leapt onto their horses and tried to make a break for it. Sheriff Ross bolted from the protection of the bank and jumped onto another of the getaway horse and tore after the thieves, gun blasting.
By the time the five of us made our way to the street, we saw the rest of it. When the shooting started in town, the people at the picnic remembered the gold in the bank and grabbed horses to return. The fleeing thieves had run smack dab into a band of citizens returning hurriedly from the picnic with guns drawn. The thieves had reined up and surrendered, returned to town peaceably.
Once the criminals were in prison, Sheriff Ross recounted the story to the townspeople, all of whom had returned. Everyone had mixed feelings. It turned out that one of the clerks had told some friends about the gold and the picnic and had helped in the robbery. The banker and the mine owner were grateful to us for saving the gold. Our parents, especially our mothers, were appalled. My father was angry that I had learned to shoot, but he changed his mind when the banker and the mine owner offered us monetary rewards. That really helped to change Pa’s mind. Everyone was impressed with the sheriff, even though he was black. Not another word was heard about the petition to the governor.
Life returned to normal pretty much. Pa put the reward money together with some money he had saved up and bought the Circle K Ranch. Jackie Ross remained the sheriff and we remained deputies. We had many adventures together.
This story has a moral. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a man by his skin color. It makes no difference if a person is white, black, red, or yellow they are all Americans.
Today, I am Sheriff Ben Carpenter. The things that I learned from that encounter stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’ve been a sheriff for twenty years and I’ve only killed three men in self-defense, in the line of duty. It’s the person that kills, not the gun. Remember that.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Writers Group Mission of the Week
Each week for the Writers’ group that meets on campus I will have a mission or challenge. For those of you who can’t make it to the meetings you can participate with us on here. (As well as by participating though posting your poems and short stories.)
Writers’ Group Mission this Week
“For godsake, keep your eyes open. Notice what’s going on around you.”
William Burroughs
Get a journal or notebook to record observations and thoughts:
“Writing is all about learning to see, hear, smell, taste and touch more accurately than most people. (Ezra Pound called writers “the antennae of the species.”) It’s all about ferreting out the significant detail that makes a place a place, a person a person, a car a car.”
Activities to get you observing and writing (choose one and post it before next Thursday):
1. Go to a cafe or diner (or somewhere on campus with a lot of people like the Corum or cafeteria) and practice short, medium and long descriptions of people. Describe one of the workers and one of the patrons.
2. Practice seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling as you go to your classes. When you get back write down everything you can remember – setting, dialogue, appearance of people, everything.
3. Automatic Writing – put on some music that fits your mood (the fewer the words the better) and get out your journal or a notebook. Let your mind be as passive and receptive as possible. Forget your genius, talents, as well as your competitive nature and just write. Write quickly without any chosen subjects, quickly enough not to dwell. Don’t read over what you are writing. Just write. (This on you do not have to share.)
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