Agrarian

He sat down on the wooden stool and removed his dusty hat. As he patted it with his hands the filth lingered in the air, illuminated by the sunlight that came through the back door. I watched it swirl largo in the gentle breeze, moving ever so slowly as if it were perennially stuck in the room we shared right then.

My trousers were a bit less soiled than his. He had made his rounds for the day and earned his share of filth. I on the other hand had merely coerced my way into his house.

I wanted to talk to him though. I needed to speak my mind and relay my thoughts for once. He needed to hear this after all - that I had put myself through so much in order to get by in these rough times.

So I began.

“Your idea is a horrible piece of shit and I think it does no good for the aggregate needs of our community and the specialized functions necessary for the principles of our far-fetched yet law-abiding demands and desires,” I exclaimed with a harsh rash.

I stopped for a second and let silence run through my brain in a far more useful manner than the thoughts that had just purged through my mouth.

“What the fuck did I just say?” I thought to myself.

His reaction was predictable. He just stood there staring past me like he had been before I even opened my mouth. His fingers slowly pinched the fringe of his hat as he pursed his lips in a miffed manner.

The squints of his eyes showed the detail of his agression and stress built inside but he remained cool and calm – if you can call it that.

Slowly his left arm raised above the table to his left. He moved the hat back on to his sullied crown with the palm of his right hand and looked towards the window. He grabbed the revolver on the table and cocked the trigger back without looking.

“You’re a very smart lad,” he grumbled between his teeth.

I couldn’t help but stare at the charcoal and sooty shadow on his cheeks.

“But you piss me off sometimes more than you make me happy.”

My eyes remained fixed on his left jaw.

“So I’m going to do you a favor,” he muttered.

“I’m going to let you walk ten paces in reverse….”

He paused to look down at his revolver.

“And then I’m going to count to four.”

“Why four?” I asked without a hesitation.

“What was that stammer?” he slipped.

“What’d you just say?”

“Fuck.” I thought to myself.

His eyes remained glassed over.

“What the fuck did I just do.”

Coq du Nord

On The Chopping Block
By BJH

I have always been quite skeptical of Austin cooking. It doesn’t seem to make sense that a city so relaxed and laid back could ever become a culinary center. Upscale cuisines take precision and expertise – traits you wouldn’t expect from a population that is dominated by a sea of burnt orange-clad individuals that fall somewhere between 18 to 22 years old.

It’s a college town so I expected college eating. Pizza, sandwiches, Buffalo wings, and burgers – you know, that kind of cuisine. The food dollar bills and coins can buy after waking up in a morning daze of inebriation, bewilderment and confusion as to why you’re still alive after drinking every form of alcohol available on 6th Street.

Upon arrival I assented with myself, “Just give me the barbecue and Tex-Mex and we’ll call it fair game.” Lone Star and Shiner Bock would help wash it all down in normal fashion.

But I met my match on a cool Friday night this October. The menu, according to the chef, had just been thrown together the day before after a hiccup in obtaining ingredients earlier in the week.

He bought the wrong amount of potatoes. He didn’t have enough bowls. The sous-chef forced him to drink a pitcher of a beer before cooking.

Was this a sane idea? Should I have left the second after stepping through the door? It was being held at the guy’s house out of all places.

At the helm for the evening is newly established chef, Max Marshall, a native of Austin. He speaks softly yet with a touch of wit and charming cheek. Tonight he’s donning a black apron atop a black t-shirt with black jeans and slicked back hair. A small strand coolly rests in front of his face. He sips slowly on a tasse du vin while moseying about the kitchen.

All the while my fellow patrons casually stroll in – coolly acknowledging each other in such a familial way. It’s relaxed here with no need for showboat presentation. They sit down on the couch and listen to music. Someone turns on the Nintendo and hands a controller to a friend. A young lady mentions to Mr. Marshall that tonight’s bottle of wine, which she brought, “Is some expensive shit.”

Such a lack of formality is what defines Mr. Marshall’s auberge of sorts. His patrons, composed entirely of close friends, come for the pleasurable food and sociable atmosphere. Far unlike the customary theatrics of Manhattan – or even Brooklyn nowadays – Austin has retained its sense of self.

Dinner doesn’t arrive at the expected 9PM serving time. Nor does it make it at 10PM. Somewhere in-between the two-hour hands a platter of French baguette crostini and a plate of Brie make it to the table. Then a bowl of dipping oil made with parsley and garlic.

“This shit is good!” says the young lady who brought the bottle of wine.

“What’s in this?”

Eventually I manage to grab a taste for myself, although the necessity for exclamatory remarks seems to miss its cue. Hm. Perhaps I’m sampling the wrong shit?

As drinks are passed around – a mix of red wine, a bottled bock beer and Lone Star from a can – Mr. Marshall announces that dinner will be ready soon. By now it’s already twenty past 10 and the aroma of reduced stock has wafted about long enough.

The sweet smell of caramelized cipollini onions mixes with the astringency of balsamic as the meal is finally plated. Oh my, there’s a tinge of rosemary also.

With the help of his sous-chef, the plates arrive to the delight of the guests. Atop the mismatched plates: A plop of mashed potatoes here, some onion bulbs there, a cluster of tossed salad in this corner, a meager drop of sauce along the plate’s edge, two prosciutto wrapped asparagus placed over that. The meal looks quite earnest.

But I have to remind myself – this meal isn’t about the formalities of cooking, or dining, or even rectified restaurant practice. Just take a damn bite already.

The mashed potatoes are chunky yet creamy. A hint of parsley and rosemary come through.

The asparagus is a bit limp yet nicely salted, the prosciutto a bit bland albeit crispy.

The salad has the right balance of plump, yellow grape tomatoes, fresh mesclun mix and a bite of earthiness a la sunflower seeds. A creamy poppy dressing brings it all together for a mellow and buttery bite.

But the main star is the veal. Though a bit desiccative on the inside, the outer spices and rosemary-infused sauce preserves the chops. Maybe they weren’t cooked at a high enough heat or given enough space on the pan. Or maybe they’re just not thick enough to be proper chops.

And yet, the center is not brown. Nor is it a deadpan shade of sepia or drained hazel. It maintains its common medium-rare to medium center, like a good man that goes to work each day with an identical normality of the calendar.

It would be a lie to say Mr. Marshall has hit his culinary climax. The meal is good – it passes for following a recipe – yet it does not dumbfound. It hits on the intended flavor points, but it does little beyond that.

Such a meal reminds me of something a well-rounded mother might cook after mulling through culinary magazines for a few days. She surely knows how to impress the crowd – but beyond that she is but a home cook.

So maybe that’s where Mr. Marshall stands for now. His cooking is far better than what the hoi polloi can create, by far. But if he wishes to improve upon his technique and mastery he must realize the fundamental necessities of a great cook and restaurateur.

It is one thing to play up a theme of casual elegance or relaxed dining, but there is no skimping on the dainties of cuisine. Timing is key, planning is indispensable.

Dessert, if I can even recall, was forgettable. No course followed dinner either, nor an offering of coffee or tea.

Instead it went straight to the whiskey – Jameson to be exact. A real rough and tidy group needs no poppycock decorum it seems.

As bones were still being chewed at the table – while dessert was being sampled by a few - Mr. Marshall’s young feline joined in on the mix. Fumbling about the plates, the grimalkin became quite the subject of a post-dinner photo shoot and evening entertainment.

I must impart, “Informal procedure” may be an inadequate designation.

By the time the plates had made their way back to the kitchen, an incoming troupe of eight or so kindred spirits came in through the door with 18-pack in hand. It was Lone Star, of course, as it is the cheapest and most palatable of the lowbrow brews in Texas.

Yet a fun fact, whether the young individuals know it or not, is that the beer has been brewed in Illinois since 2000. Which makes the beverage more of an ill-judged novelty drink than an authentic re-creation of the 1884 original.

I’d say such a comparison falls roughly where Mr. Marshall’s cooking stands for now. It’s a novelty meal for these folks – something you don’t find at the usual college dining table. But it’s also a bit of a misconception to say it is culinary elite.

Natheless, give the man some time and he’ll surely get it right. He needs to rethink his approach.

Which is why, perhaps a wise first step for him is to fire the faulty sous-chef.

Une Err

“But these are my friends!” he cursed.

“I know them better than anyone else!”

“Jimmy just sit down now. Calm down, please.”

“No! I won’t do it! You can’t tell me how to live my life!”

“I want to get away. I want out of this place around you stupid people!”

“Now don’t be silly,” she said.

“You’re being very, very silly.”

By the time they could settle him down he was already done for. His wispy hair was wet with sweat and tears, fixed against his forehead that still had a few beads on the surface.

His mother had yet to arrive, but the lady was already weeping for him. Her blouse was speckled with droplets that revealed her pale skin underneath the silken fabric. She looked at peace, more so than him, as she stroked his hair to the side to reveal his face. His eyelids remained shut, curling upward ever so slightly where they shut close. He had eyelashes prettier than hers, but this was the first time she had noticed.

Minutes passed without a word nor a commotion. The two of them, her knees on the floor, his knees in the air, remained closer together than seconds before. It is what he wanted but he couldn’t say it. He had said the other thing to her. He had told her he knew about them.

Who was “them?” What was this “thing?”

They were foolish questions the committee decided five months after the incident. By then his mother had arrived, wept and left. She was nothing now but a soulless woman without a source of happiness. Each day her friends would tell her she’d be okay. She even told herself she was okay. But they weren’t really her friends. She didn’t even know them. But little did she know – or didn’t know – what Jimmy had meant to say before he left.

Quattro Conto

Though the water was cold on my lips,
it tranquilized my gums and numbed my tongue.

I wanted to say a word about it but someone had beaten me to the tom.
“Wai--.”

It had slapped me across the face and turned my cheeks red.
But twas not the cold that had inhibited my feeling.

“Blame the weather,” is what I heard.
Problem was, I couldn’t find my earmuffs.

The sound must’ve been silent – or sensed without notice.

Nuits à des Jours

Parlez doucement et portez un gros bâton.
C'est ce qu'ils ont dit moi. Et bien sûr, je ne l'oublierai jamais.

Pas à cause des paroles dites, mais à cause des actions
qui ont été prises.

Sancerre Anniversaire

IV

That afternoon as Bunsen walked down the sidewalk, a festival was happening a few blocks east. By then the weather had cooled down and the knits were starting to come out. Bunsen made sure to never forget his chap stick. It’s a useful item, that chap stick. Not because it really helped fend off the chapping of his lips or defended him against the brutal cold. No, silly – that’s what they market it for. Instead he just liked the feel of it.

He often would sit at diners – specifically diners – and watch young ladies doll themselves up with carnelian-colored paste. This paste was quite similar to his chap stick. It made him laugh – watching these young ladies - especially when the paste ended up sticking to the top of their straws after a good gulp of milkshake. Most of the time he’d order his milkshake based off their choice. #4 was his order number. He liked the sound of it as the adolescent workers announced that his meal was ready.

Bunsen was an odd fellow, to say the least. He preferred to tether his pet iguana to a tree in his backyard instead of letting it live inside his quirky little abode. Only his young piglet named Petunia could roam about the house. Petunia was probably the reason why no one ever came over. Well, that and his character. Bunsen was sort of an outcast on top of being odd.

Yet he wasn’t always this way. He had been raised up by Sir Robert Wallington IV and Madame Theodora Hatherty with great care.

He was their only child, at least known to the public, thus their golden child. He began playing the violin at age 4 and practiced the cello on days when he felt exhausted from the violin. Most of his early childhood was spent picking pears at his grandmother’s house 2 hours north of their estate. Bunsen despised his grandmother, ever since age 8, merely because of this.

You see, Bunsen liked apples. He hated pears. So every time he was forced to go to Grandmother Edna’s, he balked. He screamed and he shouted, pouted and pounded, whined and chimed. It was chiming to him, at least – maybe not so much for Sir Robert and Madame Theodora – but he didn’t care much for them either.

For him, a life with Petunia and Edward, his iguana, seemed ideal. He cooked a lot of beans in a crock in his backyard also, solely because he wanted to feel like he was using nature properly. He’d lop off some branches, hack at a tree and collect old books to create his baked beans fires. It was tradition to him, to make them this way, which is why he began documenting them. For himself.

In his younger days, Bunsen was an avid painter. He liked oil painting because he always could produce the finest shades of red with oil paints. The colors of his works were always very bold also. Lots of apples were painted – but not in the usual still life fashion. Instead he made narratives out of his depictions of apples. Sometimes the apples would be triangles. Sometimes he gave them limbs. In one piece, which was secretly one of his favorites (he had an ongoing list of favorite works by himself), he painted an apple as a melting chronometer dripping on to the face of an apple-topped man, screaming as a green worm crawls from its mouth. He titled it, “Fantastical.”

DRINKING CULTURE
0609-1009

Newport Storm Spring Ale, Providence IPA, Whale’s Tale Pale Ale – Cisco Brewers, Gordon Biersch Schwarz, Captain Lawrence Liquid Gold, Sixpoint Rogue, India Copper NY, Firehouse Pale Ale, Honey Nut, Steenbrugge Dubbel Bruin, Stone Ruination IPA, Arrogant Bastard Ale Cask, Avery White Rascal, Lagunitas Sumpin Sumpin Ale, Smokehaus Shiner, Duman Dupage French Country Ale, Klisch Pilsner, Coney Island Human Block Island, Captain Lawrence, Anderson Bvalley Booney Amber Ale, River Horse Special Ale ESB, Belfast Bay Lobster Ale, Rockies Hazed and Confused, Saison Ale, Einbecker, Obolon Ukranian Lager, Heinnieweisse weissebier farmhouse Ale, Dragon Stout, Hell or High Watermelon Wheat, Maredsous 8, Sword Swallower, Anchor Summer Wheat Beer, Dab Beer, Weinstephaner Dunkel, Wagner Valley Sled Dog Doppelbock, Ft. Collins Kidd Lager, River Horse Double White, Otter Creek Imperial IPA Cask, Hofbrauhaus Maibock, Smuttynose Star Island Single, Sierra Nevada Kellerweis, Rogue St. Rogue Red Ale, Spaten Munchen Dunkel, Lagunitas IPA, Sixpoint Brownstone Ale, Black Iron Brew, Castelian St. Armandus, Bluebird Bitter, OB Korean, Orion Okinawa, Lagunitas Maximator, Lucky 13 Growler, Coney Island Albino Python, Yebisu Malt Beer, Two Brothers Cane & Ebel Rye Cask, Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Barleywine Ale, Troubadour Stout, Brooklyn Saricha Ale, Kira White Ale, Einbecker Brauherren Premium Pils, Dr. Fritz Briem 13th Century Grut Bier, Uerige Duffeldorf Alstadt, Smuttynose Hanami Ale, Kostriker Schwarzbier, Smuttynose Old Brown Dog Ale, Wolavers Will Stevens Pumpkin Ale, Otter Creek Oktoberfest, Modelo Especial, Singha Lager, St. Lawrence Wheat, Sixpoint Bengali IPA, Kelso Nut Brown Ale, Allagash Curieux, Abita TurboDog, Shipyard Pumpkin Ale, Menabrea Birra, Shackmeister, Avery Sixteen, Defiant Little Thumper, Tsingtao, Presidente, Model Especial, Otter Creek Oktoberfest, Flying Dog Tire Bite Golden Ale

Simpliste

Vous parlez sans paroles, vous agissez sans agir,
C'est ce que vous faites, et c'est ce que vous n'aimez pas,
Ce qui définit ce qu'il est, c'est simplement ce que ce n'est pas
L'inverse ou de l'autre, ce sont les choix
Jamais il n'est présent, n'est jamais ce que
Questions pour poser les questions et les réponses sont là des questions
Ce sont les confusions vous créez

Mais ils ne sont pas sans raison, au moins dans une certaine
La raison est dans l'œil de celui qui regarde
Si vous ne pouvez résister - bonne chance; à Dieu vit!
Mais si non, continuer d'essayer, mais vous allez réussir?

Wait it out, let it be, reste une seconde
Quel est le temps qui est gaspillé, pourquoi devriez-vous compter
Le temps est toujours de l’essence, n’est-ce pas?

Le Jours de Temps

Dearest Genevieve,

I am writing to you because the winds outside were a bit tumultuous. I couldn’t sleep this past night nor the week really. The sounds of nature are getting to me. Can’t you tell? The silence of the woods, the chirping of the birds – I thought this was supposed to be a place of solace?

Timothy and the boys have been rather annoying lately. They kind of remind me of the nature that surrounds me. The other night there was a terrible storm that came through and rattled all the branches around us. One of them fell through George’s tent and smacked him in the face. Of course we couldn’t hear his screams during the storm, but when we woke up and noticed he wasn’t awake - we knew something had happened.

Jacob was the first to see it. He pulled the flap back and immediately covered his mouth. The branch was a large one – maybe 40 or so pounds. The brunt force of it had smashed his ribcage and nailed him to the ground. He was completely frozen in rigor mortis. You could still see the tension in his fingers, gripping at the bark. His throat looked taut and strained like the skin of an animal after a hunt.

Francis couldn’t even look at all. After hearing the weeping sobs of Jacob he knew something wrong had happened. I don’t blame him though, I wouldn’t have wanted to see it if I knew what to expect. Unfortunately for myself, Timothy and I were the ones in charge of burying his corpse. It surely wasn’t delightful, surprisingly enough, but I wondered if George had made peace with himself before he left us. I thought how his family might react or what words they would say first – if any – when they’d receive the news.

For the past few days I’ve been wondering those kinds of questions. For all those words that go unsaid - those actions that go by without a stir – what difference would it make had we said them? I wonder if I really did make things better by never telling George how much I hated his breath in the morning or the way he annoyed me with those afternoon chanties. I’m sure if I had told him he wouldn’t appreciate it, but maybe he would? He did seem like a man of honor and integrity. He seemed to like honesty also – especially that one time when Kingsley stole the last piece of pie. Do you remember that night? The bloody fool ate the last piece – on George’s birthday!

Nonetheless, our dear friend is gone. We buried him next to the stream where the soil was soft and there were rocks to cover up the freshly dug dirt. The grass remains green but I wonder how much longer it will stay before autumn comes. Remember that time we went acorn picking? Twas the silliest day in the world but I still remember it as one of my favorites. Acorns, what a loopy thing to pick.

Quand les feuilles changent de couleur, ainsi mai I
Le temps est froid, mais je ne suis pas

Ta chaleur est manqué que le temps passe
La faim n’est pas le même, pas plus

La vie peut être cruelle, mais il est naturel

Hopefully I can write again soon – another storm brews in the distance and my tent is hardly complete. Take care of yourself and remain well. A thousand goodbyes never seem like enough.

With everything and more,
H.L. Gavaignac

Aboard

That afternoon as the sea breeze swept through her hair and the flicks of salty water sprayed her face, Wendy felt completely in place. She had bought a one-way ticket to Glasgow by way of Saltcoats. She made sure to pack some crackers for the trip and a few chocolates purchased from the local general store. This time she carried only one bag and an address book filled with a few scribbles. The outside was worn so much that even the patina had lost its sheen, covered by a layer of smudged grime.

Her third-class ticket placed her at the bottom of the vessel. Her berth had an olive green blanket made from low-end wool, which luckily wicked away sweat faster than it did water. Yet the smell of pungent odors wafted through her chamber’s port no matter the hour, nullifying the use of taking showers when warm, clean water was available. Even the scuttlebutt down the hall lacked a feeling of cleanliness and smelled of salinity and mildew.

This trip was meant to be a getaway – a new start. Even though her friends and family had attempted to persuade her to stay and try again or give it another year – nothing could stop her from leaving. The Post Office eventually stopped delivering letters to her home after her mailbox filled up with pleas and notes. She had decided that she no longer wished to read anything and everything so she had Jack axe the post off and burn the rest.

“No, Jack. Over there, burn it over there,” she had said to him 5 weeks earlier.

The rest of the passengers on board could be seen playing cards, chess and checkers on the deck. There was a couple over on the starboard side giggling away as they played Bryncir, spilling their cheap bottle of gin all around themselves. The man had a peculiar look to his face – one of those miens that you just can’t forget no matter how hard you try. It was a lasting look, which made it a peculiar look and also an ugly look. Every now and then when his companion wasn’t looking at him, he’d turn his head ever so briskly to catch a glimpse of an older dame sitting to his left.

He was probably of about fifty years of age yet his companion seemed to be in her early thirties. Sitting beside the pair were a trio of lads all dressed impeccably and wearing top hats. Each of them had their own, individual yet meek look – with the short, fat one taking the cake. He looked like a pug-nosed, piney prick. But his apathetic energy was what kept him looking more meek than a cheek.

The tall fellow looked as though his name should be Gideon or Ichabod. His light chestnut brown hair was as fine as a baby’s, which caused him great trouble when he took his hat off. He wore a pair of spectacles that were elongated octagons, framed by thin copper wires that were beginning to tarnish. During the conversation between the older man and his companion, Gideon – or Ichabod – would often whisper into the fat one’s ear.

Their friend, the third fellow, wore a shortened top hat with a 3-inch wide, satin red puggaree wrapped around the torso of the hat. On the left-hand side near the front of the brim he kept a bright yellow Buttercup that looked as though it had been plucked that morning. His garments were a bit more refined than his two partners, as his double-breasted coat exhibited brass buttons instead of steel. He had a scepter of some sort also, which in a way challenged the older man next to them in a passive-aggressive manner.

Besides looking over his shoulder every now and then to look at the dame, the older man would also clear his throat and look sternly at the spectacled-fellow every time the spectacled-fellow tapped his scepter on the deck. The fat, short one and the tall one never batted an eye throughout this series of exchanges.

For the first night’s dinner Wendy made sure to find a seat for herself away from the rest of foul-smelling, disease-infested passengers on her deck. She was very proud of her good hygiene so she preferred to converse with them only when it suited her needs. Earlier in the afternoon when the sun was just right on the top deck, she had managed to befriend a young lad who looked to be about her age. He had told her his name was “Peter,” but a tag on his luggage had read “Richard.” Though confused, she carried on the rest of the conversation referring to him as Peter, yet it took some effort for her to avoid blurting out what she assumed was his real name.

However, around dinnertime she had dropped her standards, if only momentarily, in search of finding this said “Peter.” After filling her plate up she roamed around the eating area for a good twenty minutes before grudgingly taking a seat near the exit. As she sat there spading at her plate with tense anger, a young man came up from behind and gave her a tap.

“Excuse me Madame, might anyone be seating beside you tonight?” he asked.

Wendy turned around with a gust of energy hoping it’d be her mysterious “Peter.”

“Oh my,” she let out.

“Well hello.”

Standing before her was a young man in a black three-piece suit and the most flawless smile she had ever seen. His hair was slicked back and combed to the side with a slight curl at the front. She could tell he took care of his body by the way the creased trousers streamlined down his thighs towards his calves and broke right at the crown of his polished black Derbies. His skin looked soft and delectable, even though she could only see his hands and face from where she was situated.

“Lance,” he said, extending his hand.

“And what might your name be Madame?”

Flustered by his imposing aura, Wendy almost gushed out the word “Peter,” but luckily she had to finish the bite she was chewing. Covering her mouth so as not to seem rude or un-ladylike, Wendy took a few more seconds to finish up.

“My name is Wendy,” she said with a bit of embarrassment.

“Take any seat you’d like - I could use the fine company.”

Frontage

I

“There are folks on this land that will strip you of your soul,” he said.

“Men come here searching for something and they find nothing. Not one thing.”

“So what is the point of looking if there is nothing or not one thing to find?” Ellis asked.

The grizzled man rocked back in his chair and narrowed his eyes as if a light had just come in through the window. His forearm gradually slid off the arm of the chair and planted itself vertically on his thigh. His callous palm, controlled by his blistered fingers pinched into his frayed and threadbare denim.

“Son I could tell you but it isn’t going to do you any good,” he said. “I tried telling Graham that a few years back and he went out anyway. Last thing I heard he was shot in the back by a few Dillinger Boys who wanted nothing more than his watch that day. It wasn’t even that nice of a watch I recall – some Moviendo brand or something like that. It had no place with him at least.”

Graham was his brother. He was about 3 or 4 years older – the oldest of the three. He was a smoker also – and a complete burnout. He had spent the last 8 or so years fucking Ellis’ mistress while Ellis picked tobacco in the field. Neither gave two shits about it because Ellis had been sleeping with Graham’s best friend’s sister, Alice. She opened her legs just as fast as Ellis could shoot down about a dozen ducks in the field. He was a master skeet shooter – the best in the county.

In town the locals were flocking to see John David, a musician turned magician from the next town over. Graham had actually fucked his wife too for a period of time – so routinely that she ended up leaving John David for Graham. Unfortunately for her, Graham had left town by the time she showed up on his doorstep.

When John David found out about it he shot her twice in each thigh. It’s said that he left her to die with a note nailed into her cervix that read, “Crucify me now or forever hold your peace.” The local morgue denies this wholly, up until this day.

II

In the morning Ellis woke up and put together his satchel for class. He had stolen a flask from his uncle the last time he visited Kindersley, which he recently had been carrying religiously. The Bible in his drawer remained in his drawer, covered up by a few pieces of fish bones he had picked clean after the last smokeout. His laziness was his greatest downfall – even his britches had more holes in them than John David could fabricate in a show. Patchwork seemed to be far from his forte also. He preferred to take shits on the back porch instead of the outhouse because the flies would come swarm about his stockpile. Though his brother detested it, Ellis would often shoot the 14-gauge at the flies hoping to scrap up some shit in the process.

“Ellis get in the goddamn wagon,” he said. “Hurry up dammit!”

Without a glance his hands reached for the satchel but knocked over the pitcher of fresh water. The smashing sound of glass and the cascading splash of the water caused the blood to run out of his face. Ignoring the shards of glass littered across the floor, Sotheby lapped up the water as if she hadn’t had a drink in days.

“Piss off you twat!” Ellis shrieked. “Before he sees what I’ve done!”

“What was that sound Ellis?” shouted a voice.

“What’d you do this time boy?”

His eyes darted to the doorway. All he could see was the next room – nothing else. As he let out an exhale, he left it up to his faith and decided to run out the back door instead.

As he leaped over the three or floor steps leading down from the veranda, he was greeted by the blinding sun that had been blocked out by drapes that morning. He squinted and lost his footing before he ever had it. Dust kicked up around his boots as his elbow made contact with the warm, chalky dirt. At that time of the year the prickly parts of the plants that grew around their house blew all over the place like little gumballs with spikes. They were a dark umber brown with holes that reminded him of the damage he had done to a deer last month. Depending on how long ago they had detached from the plant, some were hard as an apple while others were as supple as a buttocks.

Sotheby came running out the door and began licking Ellis on the face. Her tongue was bleeding from lapping the water inside as evidenced on his shirt. While he tried to fight her off she kept licking and lapping without any desire to cease.

“Just stop! Stop right now girl!” Ellis demanded.

She still kept going at it as if licking his shirt would do him any good. By then the blood had stained through the linen and onto his skin. The warm sun made sure to dry it fast and cause the blood to stick to his skin.

Just then a voice came from the house that sounded both happy and sad at the same time. Ellis couldn’t hear properly but assumed he had heard “dead” and “come” in the same sentence.

“Come on girl,” he said. “Let’s get back home. He’s calling me back.”

III

At the back doorstep Alice was standing with an envelope in her hand. She had a smile on her face, which she wiped just as soon as Ellis came back.

“Hello Ellis,” she said.

“Hello,” he responded.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so… dirty.”

“Well, yes,” he said. “But there’s a reason why I’m so—“

“No need to explain to me,” she said. “But I have something for you.”

She extended her hand and handed him the envelope. It was a light rose color of good stock and had ample weight.

“Thank you,” he said.

In the back the maid could be seen picking up the shards of glass and wiping the floor.

“Oh don’t worry about that Killam! I’ll get around to that –“

“Soon enough?” Killam asked. “Excuse me sir, but bull-friggin’-shit.”

Diverting his eyes back to Alice, Ellis smiled then looked away.

“Sorry you had to experience all this Alice,” he said.

“Usually I’m not such a tardy and uncouth individual,” he added.

“Please, Ellis. Don’t be sorry about it, just take the envelope and I’ll just…”

“Come over here boy and tell me what the hell this crap is!” demanded a voice from inside.

It was him. Ellis had assumed he wouldn’t see or hear it but Killam must not have cleaned it up fast enough.

“Don’t make me ask you twice!” he said again from inside.

Ellis looked to Alice again and expressed his sorrow through the sappy look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed and walked off with the letter.

“Ellis, wait!” Alice said as she grabbed his bloodied arm.

“Open it for me, please,” she said.

“It would mean a lot to me.”