Amadeus

Jack gathered up what he needed, that wasn't much, and he did not give a second glance to the room with the timber beams and the good night's rest he'd had that one time; he wended down the narrow stairs still recalling the sweetness of that one sleep; you could see that the day was as close as spit to breaking.

He had not much time, but he had enough. He saw the door ahead, just like he'd been counting on. All the pictures on the way down spoke of death, ruthlessness and acceptance. Jack had his guitar and a bag.
He made no sound, but still he did not make his escape unheard, for we hear more than mere noises. Don't we?

The family was spread across the farmhouse, each with their own territory that none would cross of the other, but they were all close enough to the well, and they knew every groan and creak of the old homestead as she cracked her knuckles and stretched her back ready for the next shift. Jack's foot came to rest slow on the uncertain fifth step from the bottom.

Was that a...?

A great snore ceased like an extinguished flame; it left a chasm that wasn't there before. Jack's heart had always been beating, but now he listened to nothing else, enlivened under its startled command. His heels snapped to in the realisation. Jack was aware of the stakes here, again.

A few feet above the fugitive Mister gestured his wife to be silent with an angry chop of his great hand. When you spend so much time with a woman you have never found attractive, who has the power only to disgust you in the cider crawl to sweat and ambiguity, when you find yourself awake with her again, you have little patience to spare. She lay back with that same embattled simple smile. But she too was concerned, only her concerns were filtered through the dirty prism of her man, about how she could gain if not affection, maybe a sliver of grudging respect. The cheated wish their misfortune on everyone they come across, it's what they've learned.Hope of freedom died within her as starved of the nutrient born of that first thought as ever and ever shall be.

In another room brother Leo was going to be on the gun first light, slept light on account of that, wondered why he'd woken so early. He sat up bolt and listened. He shook his head at the thought of treachery. When there was blood to be had, Leo was first at table with knife and fork poised. He was always simmering on the hob of existence so it didn't take much to let him boil over. Well, he'd warned them about that Jack. He'd told them he would end up taking matters into his own hand. Rebuffed by Mister for his ham-fisted stupidity, Leo had been nursing a grudge that easily overcame his reason. All those patronising bastards would now see.

Up top in a bedroom angled to the eaves was Jeannie, she'd taken the name Amour, a name that had never been welcome in the house. She stuck to it in memory of the unknown who had left her to be found and raised by strangers. She hadn't slept at all these last few hours. What she heard wasn't unexpected. She had never shaken off the curse. Why would it be cast away now by this incomer? Of all them, she understood the most about Jack, and she didn't know anything at all.

The house rose as one, answering each others' calls. Boots were fumbled for and found. The guns were easier to hand and time was suddenly as short as a match burning into your finger. Mister shot a Brit once, in cold blood. Asked him if he wanted to say a prayer - Mister always told the story in the same way - he did not, he would say, then I plugged him. Plugged was the word he had chosen to describe his act of murder and robbery from a family whose debt could never be paid. Aye, I plugged him, he would say, and then he would bury his face in his tankard like it was sand.

Jack knew he was discovered. Cared not of anything except his own movement. Now, that was away, far from here with all of their God's speed. He trotted across the way, heading for the safety of the tree-line ahead. Machinery and chickens lay around the yard all waiting for the hand of man. Windows began to open and his exposure was confirmed.

They were all scared of Leo, he'd proven many times to have no limit to his temper; his eyes now caught light at the sight of another unobtained extremity of behaviour. It was a blessing, said his mother, that he could not or cared not to read; he had made bloody mud of the few ideas he had encountered there in the backwoods of the backwoods. But the old man struck a deeper terror, because he was twice as bad and ten times as smart. Both men had heads like basilicas, painted with scars and lined with bone determination. Empty of all but cunning. You wouldn't call what they did mischief.

Jeannie didn't go to the window, even though she heard the demanding clucks of the scattering fowl as they wrongly deduced from the presence among them that they were to breakfast early. She stared at the whitewashed walls, the rosary hung and the pictures of the saints askew. What he'd taken, she could never recover. All that was left was memory, impression, and a life half-complete. She heard the front-dorr being kicked open. Now she went to the window that she might will him to safety.

Jack thought of these people back then, not often but sometimes. He'd found that in the bigger world there existed many Leo's, Mister's, Misters' wives, but only one Jeannie. When he played it was with her ghost dancing by the fire. For truth, he knew that there wouldn't be the same music without her match for his indifference the morning he ran away. He watched the sun slip down the sky.

She would be older now, never in his mind would she be older, that was one of the best things about it. At times on the stoop when people stopped to listen to the guitar he was playing with the diamonds enstudded he would play louder that she might somehow hear. Of course, it was impossible. It was the trying that brought one of his rare ol' smiles as he hunkered down on his instrument and blew them away like dust.

Jeannie in her best dress on a Sunday, the men smoking outside during the sermon, Jack the only grown male remaining, frowned upon - he was getting used to that - then free hours in the rise and fall of the fields the leeside of the wind of Spring. Here, it's about survival, that's reflected in the wildlife. The sun is warming and the corn is already gold; patched butterflies flutter hither and thither and, at ground-level, the dampness of yesterday's rains make for an intoxicating perfume when mixed with the undergrowth. Jack pulls Jeannie down to where he's lying. She laughs in all seriousness ans he cracks a length of corn that's been dangling in his lazy mouth like it's a promise breaking. Oh, she says, you're a fine one, a bad one. Aye, he replied, and do you think what you were thinking in that chapel's going to compensate for all those rosaries you say?

Such a smile she gave to that.

All this is to be heard on the stoop in the far off city those multitudinous moonslater on with the added weight of experience not getting in the way. Jack plays to conjure up such a spirit. Because they don't get it, Jack plays harder that they might understand. When you drink of the water and you've a raging thirst, you don't care where it came from, you just want to drink in of that miracle.

Mister, his end came with a last violent cough of scarlet on the lace pillow that his wife had almost kept for the occasion. Most were happy to bear witness at his demise. All attended the funeral - in those parts, there was no choice. Their hatreds and prejudices were packed and potted like the jam they would make each year and seal tightly in labelled jars. If ever Jack was going to return, it would be now.

Of course he'll come, said Jeannie to her seething brother - they were both newly lost without their father - knowing he would not come, but still hoping like humans do for the ridiculous possible. She only said it to weaken her brother's position, she only said it for herself. Of course he'll come. Leo snorted like he'd just missed a clean shot on some docile juicy doe just because he had the fucking shakes. Jeannie mocked his anger, turned it against him. Their mother intervened and called their attention to their social reponsibilities.

Jeannie couldn't but help glancing at the scenes of their last cavortings.

Jack, he didn't want what they wanted. Anything but. But you come quickly to the conclusion that it's not worth explaining. They had never met Jeannie, or her father or her mother, nor even her brother - although they would have encountered similiar - Jack realised he was only making intoductions.

Jack gathered up what he needed, which wasn't much. He started looking for the door.

Olly Buckle

I like things like the cider crawl to ambiguity, there are a couple of places like each with his own territory that one would not cross of the other where I am not sure if it is error or dialect usage but overall lots of good stuff here, prejudices packed and potted like jams.. and too many more than I can list. Makes me want to go back and re do my one because I know now I was concentrating on getting the story line right, I reckon critiquing someone else is often as good for yourself as it is for them, I notice you have a smaller font, did you notice the post above yours on my story? Keep going, do you have other things besides stories?

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Amadeus

Thanks for yer comments. Those foibles of syntax are not errors, at least they're not supposed to be construed as such; they just seemed to be in the flow of it all, like neologisms, except with form rather than words. I did see the post, but didn't get her point - the bigger the better I say! Yes, I have a lot of stuff besides!

Olly Buckle

If you are going to put new meanings to words or form it must be totally clear, otherwise you will lose your audience (In the sense that they won't understand). The fact that I questioned it would seem to show that you failed, not a reason for not trying though.

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Amadeus

I understand what you're saying, but the words seemed to fit in that form with the bucolic and quasi-religiosity tastes that they suggest. Of course, I was conscious that I might lose the reader and so I only used the conceit now and then. But yeah, if you questioned it then it does mean I have failed - yet again! - because it's klunky, and that's my pet hate ( cheaper than a hamster, also better house-trained). This story was just something I did from a bit of guitar-work by a friend of mine. So, it's his fault! Thanks again.

Amadeus

I refuse to be buried!

Amadeus

I still refuse!

r0ck0sauruzzz

Can you deal with the paragraphings and spacings and etc? Lol. My eyes hurt...had to stop halfway.

Amadeus

You are right, rox! I will amend, if I can work out how ta do it!

Dr. Apopolus

Okay, here's what you do - MS Word, right, stay with me... open it! Then, and I hope I haven't lost you here, okay good - two words... enter key.

Just a suggestion, might work, why not try?

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Amadeus

Thanks, Dox. I did manage to break up the paragraphs and so, hopefully, make the story more readable. But doesn't it reaffirm yer faith in the page in hand?

Amadeus

I thought this was fantastic!

writeforfun

Amadeus:

No offense, but I found this tedious and somewhat opaque. You seem to layer on the language and create some nice stuff, as referenced above, the bit about prejudices packed like jams, but why not SHOW how these people are prejudiced, instead?
The essences of good story telling isn't in the beautiful, wondrous language, metaphors and similies we think are so clever, but in character, action, interaction, reaction, etc. You use the pretty stuff to amplify the characters, plot in a tasteful way.
Maybe this is a part of a larger piece, I don't know. But I felt lost, like this really wasn't going anywhere important and with no gripping characters or plot to keep me stuck in.
You've the ability to write, now just give us something we don't want to put down.
Resist the urge to smother your story in excessive helpings of pretty words. Thanks and good luck!

Amadeus

None taken!

Amadeus

This is Joycean and joyous! Well done, Amadeus. You are an original, I'll say that!