R rating for descriptive violence and potentially offensive language, readers beware.
The year is eighteen and thirty, the boy is strong and large boned but lithe in his eleventh year, he lives in a simple wooden cabin nestled amongst the endless forests of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, the child lives with his father and a sister aged fifteen, several miles from their rustic home a plantation resides and there men harvest the ash, fir and spruce trees of the mountainside for shipping and commercial use in the great factories of Knoxville. The child's father works for the landowners, hewing wood alongside the captive Negroes and a handful of freemen, oft times he functions as an educator, teaching the children of the white folk to read and write. The boy, a halfbreed Indian named Jackson Ira Alexander Hayes by his father, is forbidden from co-mingling with the local children by their parents, he works with his father regularly, associating and seeking fellowship with the slaves, a people he has begun to hold affection and kinship with; and today is the day he proves those bonds of loyalty are far stronger than chain fetters.
Jackson stands amongst the perpetual trees, the rough haft of a broadaxe is clutched within calloused grasp, the child is young but hard, ragged appearance show him to a diligent worker, he heavily draws breath from the moist, mountain air of his surroundings, a weary sigh emitted from chest as attention returns to the work at hand. Face, placid and browned from his mother's stock and the fierce sun overhead, his lips are chapped and unsmiling and he'd the look of one many times his senior; he takes firm grip on the axe, hefting it to the side, he'd swing it at the tree, allowing his forward grip to slide down the length of the shaft and greet his opposite hand. The wedged head of the axe bites into the tree, removing a great notch from it's trunk and he repeats said action until the tree is felled, where he leaves it for the blacks to collect, he'd settle himself upon the ground near the felled tree and await the men; it was only a short time before two negroes would come by and drag the tree up the slopes to be further processed, he'd help the men despite it not being his assigned job. Jackson props the broadaxe upon his shoulder as opposite hand firmly grasps a protrusion along the fallen tree, he'd try his best to lift it and assist the two in taking such to the hewing quarters, it was a long and gruelling process, dragging it up there, and when it was done he'd watch the two blacks monotonously chop and scrape the excess wood till the tree was smooth and workable. The child watches them silently, his face blank of expression, one of the slaves, a fellow by the name of John Jackson, a leathery and ancient looking man with a strong, wiry body, smiles at the kid, exposing teeth as white as pearls; the boy would only stare at him for a while before speaking up, his soft, mousy voice addressing the black with a dull tone typical of the child. "Evenin', John, how's the day fare ye'?" His question seems odd, though he shows a genuine interest in the fellow's well being, his brow raised in mild curiousity as he awaits an answer that is long in coming, the negroes attention divided between the child and the work at hand, John answers sometime later, voice perpetually raspy, as if his throat were dry. "S'well as a fettered man fares, I s'pose. I'd be well enough if'n the damned rain'd let up fer a coupla days 'er so." The young boy's head rises and falls within a nod, he studies the man's face, thinking back on what the plantation master had said to his father, comparing the blacks to animals who were all too fortunate to be permitted a chance to take root in the civilized world; Jackson's father had agreed with the man at the time, though in truth he knew his father to get along splendidly with them. To the point of having taken a slave as his wife some years prior to Jackson's conception, she'd give birth to a dark-skinned, pretty girl four years the boy's senior and then most suddenly perish of pneumonia; though the child himself was unaware he and his sister did not share the same mother, as they were rarely spoken of outside his father's drunken stupors. (To be continued.)
Last Edit: Sept 17, 2009 13:49:22 GMT -5 by Jackson
They call me the Breeze, 'cause I keep blowing down the road.
[PG 13-R, because the fella needs an ending, Endymien a few months back.]
The familiar scent of the city was overwhelming, and the view from outside his window brought on pictures of memories that spread mixed emotions. He closed his eyes, and the energy of the room took him back. If he tried hard enough, he could see his mother in the shop downstairs dusting shelves and his father from behind the counter looking at her with eyes that never lost their loving glint until the night of her death. The street had been abandoned to the poor state. The neighborhood had never been rich, but it was a funny shock to find his fathers old store a brothel now. In the room upstairs, his childhood bedroom, one of the men who tended to the women lay sleeping on his stomach. His shirt off, and pants hugging his lips low.
He turned to stare at the man, feeling a bit numb. Or was it very tired? He was empty. No more relatives of blood existed to him after his father hung himself in the church. The pale sight in his mind burned. His father's body creaking the rope in it's weight, and the memory placed his mothers body in the scene as well. Dress torn, half nude, puddle expanding from the hole blown into the side of her head. His eyes cringed shut with furrowed brow and shook his head hard to make the memories fo back to their place of hiding.
Walking by the window, a ghostly reflection of the man that had to have been him came back. He removed his glasses, not feeling like the well kept man that he saw. Folding them nicely and carefully putting them on the night stand, keeping his palm on them for a moment. Slowly he increased the pressure that he was putting on them until a crack was heard. Lifting the hand, he stared at the broken glasses. Not really seeing them well enough to know the extent of the damage he had done. Moving towards the other end of the room he picked his shirt up off the floor and buttoned it with shaking fingers. When he reached the last button on the right, there was still a slot on the left. Instead of rebuttoning he gave the fabric an angry yank. Top buttons coming undone and one popping off.
A belt was taken from the vanity that lay next to two shot glasses and an empty glass bottle that smelled strong of whiskey. Doing himself up before pulling the gun from the holster and giving it a check. Spinning the barrel and looking at the bullets. Obsessive nature had to check one more time before setting off. Finally looking at his reflection, he stared back in a dead way. Lifting his hand he massaged his eyes in a way that showed his exhaustion too well. "Demi, Doba.. pray for your father." His babies were not forgotten. Turning towards the door he would head out, taking the stairs down two at a time and hitting the humid sewer air of a New York summer. He took to the dirrection in the hotel, hand searching for the beads of his rosary, "Our father.. who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.."
Last Edit: Mar 22, 2010 22:55:02 GMT -5 by endymien
"Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration." -Charles Dickens