wellownedbkup (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wellownedbkup) wrote2009-11-05 11:56 pm
wellownedbkup) wrote2009-11-05 11:56 pm
Entry tags:
(mini nano) Dead Men Tell No Tales
Title: dead men tell no tales
Prompt: day 5 mini-nanowrimo, picture of jeans and feet on wet pavement
Verse: This Mortal Coil (Nano 09) Apocrypha
the rain's just beginning to clear when he steps outside, bare feet curling in the muddy puddles gathering underneath the lean-to porch. he could still hear the rumble of thunder, the hooves that had clamored over his roof. he shivers, a chill rushing electric down his spine to settle uncomfortably in his belly. he's heard the tales, but never put as much stock in them as so many others had that he'd known. his father, if truth be told. pa stoddard had been a good many things, to tell it true. no one could ever claim that Joe would speak ill of the dead. and yet...
and yet, pa stoddard kept a little salt in his pocket to throw over his shoulder to keep the evil spirits from following him. he never spoke when passing Mount Moriah's great many cemeteries. and when he spoke in hypotheticals, in ifs and whens and of dead people who may still be watching, he knocked on the wood of the shack's walls, of the saloon's bar, or whatever was near at the time. he was a good man, and his superstitions had kept him alive a lot longer than many cowboys out on the western range, only losing his life after he interfered with a stagecoach robbery and a man had been far too liberal with his pistol.
but pa. pa stoddard didn't sleep during thunderstorms, eyes trained on the leaky roof above his head and his boots on his feet. as boys, they'd learned never to disturb him on nights like that, where the storm raged outside and the rain pelted through chinks in the wall until their scant mattresses were as soaked through as if they had sweated all night or the way they'd felt in the morning as children, too incapable of recognizing a full bladder when it happened. across the room, over the little iron stove in the center, they could watch him lie there in wait for the storm's apparent end. and when they could finally hear the rain settle from a torrent to a slow pitter-pat and the thunder only rolled in the far distant sky, joe remembered seeing his father stand up slowly, as if his joints had been screwed too tight in the interim wait, while the air had been tense and the storm had battered their home. and when he'd opened the door, the clean thick air came in and swept the tension away, leaving only the smell of the rain and the green things growing outside.
pa had never fully explained his apprehension until it felt like it was almost too late. a scant week before he met with an errant bullet from a desperate thief, the strangest storm blew up in Moriah. pa had been out in the field, tending to the horses when it had started, loud and suddenly like a freight train barrelling through their land. joe and his brother had waited anxiously for so long for pa to come in, and gasped when he came in, drenched and pale. ma had barely the presence of mind herself to do more than hand him a cup when he'd snatched the bottle of whiskey down from the cabinets and sat shakily down at the table.
"i never thought i'd see it. the eyes! those horrible red eyes and those thundering hooves!" he shook. "they knew my name and called me to them, told me i was coming to join their ride and i couldn't move." he tossed back another whiskey and turned wild eyes to joe and his brother, cowering near the other end of the table. "they say when you see the riders in the sky, you're next to join their ride across the sky. when you hear their thunder hooves pounding on the roof at night, they're coming to steal the sleeping souls and the wicked. when you're out in the field and the riders come a-calling, you drop down into the nearest ditch and don't you watch them ride! for fear you'll hear your name and have to join their ride."
he shuddered, and poured himself another cup of whiskey. "those horrible red eyes and their riders!"
joe stepped out beneath the lean-to and watched the grey clouds of the riders disappear off into the horizon, the rain slowing to a pitter-pat on his roof, letting out a sigh of breath between one moment and the next as the sun broke across the horizon and dawn was upon him. another night, safe from the call of riders in the sky.
Prompt: day 5 mini-nanowrimo, picture of jeans and feet on wet pavement
Verse: This Mortal Coil (Nano 09) Apocrypha
the rain's just beginning to clear when he steps outside, bare feet curling in the muddy puddles gathering underneath the lean-to porch. he could still hear the rumble of thunder, the hooves that had clamored over his roof. he shivers, a chill rushing electric down his spine to settle uncomfortably in his belly. he's heard the tales, but never put as much stock in them as so many others had that he'd known. his father, if truth be told. pa stoddard had been a good many things, to tell it true. no one could ever claim that Joe would speak ill of the dead. and yet...
and yet, pa stoddard kept a little salt in his pocket to throw over his shoulder to keep the evil spirits from following him. he never spoke when passing Mount Moriah's great many cemeteries. and when he spoke in hypotheticals, in ifs and whens and of dead people who may still be watching, he knocked on the wood of the shack's walls, of the saloon's bar, or whatever was near at the time. he was a good man, and his superstitions had kept him alive a lot longer than many cowboys out on the western range, only losing his life after he interfered with a stagecoach robbery and a man had been far too liberal with his pistol.
but pa. pa stoddard didn't sleep during thunderstorms, eyes trained on the leaky roof above his head and his boots on his feet. as boys, they'd learned never to disturb him on nights like that, where the storm raged outside and the rain pelted through chinks in the wall until their scant mattresses were as soaked through as if they had sweated all night or the way they'd felt in the morning as children, too incapable of recognizing a full bladder when it happened. across the room, over the little iron stove in the center, they could watch him lie there in wait for the storm's apparent end. and when they could finally hear the rain settle from a torrent to a slow pitter-pat and the thunder only rolled in the far distant sky, joe remembered seeing his father stand up slowly, as if his joints had been screwed too tight in the interim wait, while the air had been tense and the storm had battered their home. and when he'd opened the door, the clean thick air came in and swept the tension away, leaving only the smell of the rain and the green things growing outside.
pa had never fully explained his apprehension until it felt like it was almost too late. a scant week before he met with an errant bullet from a desperate thief, the strangest storm blew up in Moriah. pa had been out in the field, tending to the horses when it had started, loud and suddenly like a freight train barrelling through their land. joe and his brother had waited anxiously for so long for pa to come in, and gasped when he came in, drenched and pale. ma had barely the presence of mind herself to do more than hand him a cup when he'd snatched the bottle of whiskey down from the cabinets and sat shakily down at the table.
"i never thought i'd see it. the eyes! those horrible red eyes and those thundering hooves!" he shook. "they knew my name and called me to them, told me i was coming to join their ride and i couldn't move." he tossed back another whiskey and turned wild eyes to joe and his brother, cowering near the other end of the table. "they say when you see the riders in the sky, you're next to join their ride across the sky. when you hear their thunder hooves pounding on the roof at night, they're coming to steal the sleeping souls and the wicked. when you're out in the field and the riders come a-calling, you drop down into the nearest ditch and don't you watch them ride! for fear you'll hear your name and have to join their ride."
he shuddered, and poured himself another cup of whiskey. "those horrible red eyes and their riders!"
joe stepped out beneath the lean-to and watched the grey clouds of the riders disappear off into the horizon, the rain slowing to a pitter-pat on his roof, letting out a sigh of breath between one moment and the next as the sun broke across the horizon and dawn was upon him. another night, safe from the call of riders in the sky.