Let's try this again....
Jun. 12th, 2004 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silverthorneNot exactly fanfic...just the junk that clutters my mind from now and then. Feel free to FB me somehow, although I won't promise this will ever see a finish (although I'm more likely to work towards one if I know I actually have an audience.). Characters, plot idea and so forth are actually my own brain-child, although I cannot take credit for the creation of Tucson, Arizona or the insufferably cute Gamble's Quails that live there. Those are all someone else's fault **Looks skyward** Anyhow, enjoy..........
*****
Johnny Bristlecoat
1) The Vagrant
Sunset washed the Tucson sky with bright but delicate paintbrush colors of fluorescent oranges, pinks, yellows and greens. A few wispy clouds, the abandoned remains of a storm that had been raging off the Baja Gulf, flowered across the sky in angrily bruised hues, dampening the more riotous colors.
The sun, a bright orange-gold orb, wavered in the heat of the air as it slowly dipped beyond the westernmost mountain range. The east-facing side was already darkening in purple and grey shadows, a contrast to the rest of the valley, which was still bathed in a rosy glow that seemed to give the sleepy desert city an unearthly glow. The illusion was furthered by the other three mountain ranges that ringed the valley on all sides. The desert rock reflected the same luminescent light from the sky above.
It was a hot day, even though the year was scarcely into May. At ninety degrees, the climate would have been unbearable if the air had not been almost devoid of moisture. There was an occasional hint of a breeze, but at the moment, the early evening air had the heavy feel of sleep and the edges of creeping Dreamtime.
That feeling was not dispersed in the old, abandoned park that resided within the core of the southwest section of town. Most of the area was riddled with defunct adobe buildings and abandoned warehouses. One or two trailer parks, as aged and dried as the scrub and sand around them, dotted the empty spaces in between dilapidated real estate. It gave the area the same feel one would expect of an old fashioned Ghost Town, even though the interstate highway was a mere half mile to the west.
The park itself looked like little more than an expanse of desert dotted with worn tufts of grass and small boulders. One or two sickly trees provided questionable shade, and the children's swing sets were little more than metal skeletons with an occasional chain hanging from the top of the frames. The chains swung slightly in the evening breeze, unlubricated metal making mournful squalls reminiscent of abandoned souls. Here, more than in most of the area, there was a sense of abandonment and loss.
It was no surprise then that a vagrant was leaning up against one of the metal legs of the swing set. Like most of the hobos that used this park as a way-station, he was unkempt and dirty. A worn leather pancho, that may have at one time been a creamy beige, was now light grey and streaked with darker smears of dirt brown. The worn, frayed blue jeans that jutted out underneath were as equally worn and grimy, and the cowboy boots on the travelers feet were worm enough that the delicate etching that had once adorned the calfskin leather was nearly obliviated with time.
A wide brimmed black hat, so ground in with dirt that it looked brown, hid the vagrants face and neck, leaving only the wild and grizzled length of hair that flowed out from underneath to give any indication as to the age of the man.
The hair, and the pale, fine-boned hands that peaked out from close cuffed, denim shirt sleeves. The hair suggested an older man, greying and worn as the rest of him that could be seen. The hands suggested a young man, barely out of his teens. But clothing and a head held down and hidden by the hat's brim left the question open for further debate. Whoever he was, he seemed to be sleeping soundly.
The sun gave one final flash of brilliance that danced along the sky before sinking completely beneath the edge of the mountains. In its wake was left behind a sky even more vibrant in neon smears than before, and a dry, dusty land that seemed to turn a luminescent rose-pink as evening crept towards night. Slowly, the air started to stir, the winds cooling rapidly without the sun to keep them searing hot.
In the last gasp of evening, a young male gamble quail scratched and strutted itself across the park grounds. Pecking at the odd tuft of grass, pulling at the tough stalks of bramble and weed, he searched for a final meal before having to retire for the night. The little bird was hungry, but predators would be coming with the dark. Owls, javelina, coyote. All of them would be hungry, and a foolish quail would make an excellent appetizer.
The spunky little fowl's zigzagging trail soon found himself between the outstretched legs of the vagrant, but that fact seemed to deter the little one not in the least. So absorbed in finding that last tasty morsel, he failed to notice that he was anywhere near another living being, even when he'd clambered up onto one denim-clad knee. With a proud, puffed out chest, and a flick of his little black crest feather, the quail called out, staking his claim on this odd cottoned land, and whatever food for a starving fowl it would relinquish.
'Qwee-hoo-hoo-hoo....' Was the soft, melodic call. Twice more the quail made it, still unaware, even as the vagrant's head slowly shifted, lifting up and back to reveal the face of the traveler.
Although fine lines etched at the corners of eyes and mouth, traced a few delicate furrows across a flawless forehead, the man's face was best described as ageless. Fine-boned, high cheeked, and almond eyed, the man had an almost elven look to him, although he distinctly lacked any sign of pointed ears that would complete the illusion. Blue grey eyes blinked with sleep that suddenly washed away in wakefulness. They carried an age that was beyond the man's apparent life-span.
Those steely eyes shifted down to the quail as it gave one last hue and cry, and a gentle, if amused smile, crossed fine lips, even as the quail bent to peck and scratch at the cottony fabric it was on. A low chuckle from its perch gave the bird pause, and it raised shiny black orbs to stare at the man.
"Hello little friend..." The man murmured, as if he expected the creature to understand completely, "It is good to see you...although I do believe you are on dangerous ground. It is coming on night, you see. And I have not eaten yet..."
There was a long pause as the man let silence stretch between himself and his grey feathered companion. His eyes crinkled in a smile as the bird cocked its head to the side as if considering his words.
Then, suddenly, it was across the park in a flurry of stubby wings. The quail hit the ground at the edge of a bramble bush, and it wasted no time in running the rest of the way, disappearing under the protective tangle of thorns and brambles. The man's laughter chased along behind, echoing in the gathering twilight.
"Well then, I suppose that means I will not have a quail for dinner tonight..." The man mused, getting up from where he had been sitting all this time. He carefully brushed himself off, straightening both pancho and hat as he looked around, smoothing shirt and pants as he brushed off the dust. His movements and attitude seemed to personify the delicate neatness of a cat. An illusion not easily shattered by the graceful, feline primping after he had dusted himself off.
Finally, seemingly satisfied with his condition, the vagrant gave the park one last look, his eyes settling on the quail's hiding spot last of all. With another wry smiled, he bowed to the bush, removing his hat in a flourishing bow of gratitude.
"Thank you, Brother Quail, for the lodging. May White Shell woman bless you and all your offspring...!"
With another flourish, the hat was back on, and the man looking about one more time, as if deciding where to go. He cocked his head sidewise as another gust of breeze--now more like an honest wind, grabbed the sails of his hair and pulled. The man closed his eyes, sniffed the air, and then nodded.
"Yes...of course..." He whispered, and his eyes slid open once more. With a step, he was away from the swing set. With another, he was, literally, gone, leaving the park empty of all tenants but the quail.
And the soft notes of ghostly laughter on the wind.
*****
Johnny Bristlecoat
1) The Vagrant
Sunset washed the Tucson sky with bright but delicate paintbrush colors of fluorescent oranges, pinks, yellows and greens. A few wispy clouds, the abandoned remains of a storm that had been raging off the Baja Gulf, flowered across the sky in angrily bruised hues, dampening the more riotous colors.
The sun, a bright orange-gold orb, wavered in the heat of the air as it slowly dipped beyond the westernmost mountain range. The east-facing side was already darkening in purple and grey shadows, a contrast to the rest of the valley, which was still bathed in a rosy glow that seemed to give the sleepy desert city an unearthly glow. The illusion was furthered by the other three mountain ranges that ringed the valley on all sides. The desert rock reflected the same luminescent light from the sky above.
It was a hot day, even though the year was scarcely into May. At ninety degrees, the climate would have been unbearable if the air had not been almost devoid of moisture. There was an occasional hint of a breeze, but at the moment, the early evening air had the heavy feel of sleep and the edges of creeping Dreamtime.
That feeling was not dispersed in the old, abandoned park that resided within the core of the southwest section of town. Most of the area was riddled with defunct adobe buildings and abandoned warehouses. One or two trailer parks, as aged and dried as the scrub and sand around them, dotted the empty spaces in between dilapidated real estate. It gave the area the same feel one would expect of an old fashioned Ghost Town, even though the interstate highway was a mere half mile to the west.
The park itself looked like little more than an expanse of desert dotted with worn tufts of grass and small boulders. One or two sickly trees provided questionable shade, and the children's swing sets were little more than metal skeletons with an occasional chain hanging from the top of the frames. The chains swung slightly in the evening breeze, unlubricated metal making mournful squalls reminiscent of abandoned souls. Here, more than in most of the area, there was a sense of abandonment and loss.
It was no surprise then that a vagrant was leaning up against one of the metal legs of the swing set. Like most of the hobos that used this park as a way-station, he was unkempt and dirty. A worn leather pancho, that may have at one time been a creamy beige, was now light grey and streaked with darker smears of dirt brown. The worn, frayed blue jeans that jutted out underneath were as equally worn and grimy, and the cowboy boots on the travelers feet were worm enough that the delicate etching that had once adorned the calfskin leather was nearly obliviated with time.
A wide brimmed black hat, so ground in with dirt that it looked brown, hid the vagrants face and neck, leaving only the wild and grizzled length of hair that flowed out from underneath to give any indication as to the age of the man.
The hair, and the pale, fine-boned hands that peaked out from close cuffed, denim shirt sleeves. The hair suggested an older man, greying and worn as the rest of him that could be seen. The hands suggested a young man, barely out of his teens. But clothing and a head held down and hidden by the hat's brim left the question open for further debate. Whoever he was, he seemed to be sleeping soundly.
The sun gave one final flash of brilliance that danced along the sky before sinking completely beneath the edge of the mountains. In its wake was left behind a sky even more vibrant in neon smears than before, and a dry, dusty land that seemed to turn a luminescent rose-pink as evening crept towards night. Slowly, the air started to stir, the winds cooling rapidly without the sun to keep them searing hot.
In the last gasp of evening, a young male gamble quail scratched and strutted itself across the park grounds. Pecking at the odd tuft of grass, pulling at the tough stalks of bramble and weed, he searched for a final meal before having to retire for the night. The little bird was hungry, but predators would be coming with the dark. Owls, javelina, coyote. All of them would be hungry, and a foolish quail would make an excellent appetizer.
The spunky little fowl's zigzagging trail soon found himself between the outstretched legs of the vagrant, but that fact seemed to deter the little one not in the least. So absorbed in finding that last tasty morsel, he failed to notice that he was anywhere near another living being, even when he'd clambered up onto one denim-clad knee. With a proud, puffed out chest, and a flick of his little black crest feather, the quail called out, staking his claim on this odd cottoned land, and whatever food for a starving fowl it would relinquish.
'Qwee-hoo-hoo-hoo....' Was the soft, melodic call. Twice more the quail made it, still unaware, even as the vagrant's head slowly shifted, lifting up and back to reveal the face of the traveler.
Although fine lines etched at the corners of eyes and mouth, traced a few delicate furrows across a flawless forehead, the man's face was best described as ageless. Fine-boned, high cheeked, and almond eyed, the man had an almost elven look to him, although he distinctly lacked any sign of pointed ears that would complete the illusion. Blue grey eyes blinked with sleep that suddenly washed away in wakefulness. They carried an age that was beyond the man's apparent life-span.
Those steely eyes shifted down to the quail as it gave one last hue and cry, and a gentle, if amused smile, crossed fine lips, even as the quail bent to peck and scratch at the cottony fabric it was on. A low chuckle from its perch gave the bird pause, and it raised shiny black orbs to stare at the man.
"Hello little friend..." The man murmured, as if he expected the creature to understand completely, "It is good to see you...although I do believe you are on dangerous ground. It is coming on night, you see. And I have not eaten yet..."
There was a long pause as the man let silence stretch between himself and his grey feathered companion. His eyes crinkled in a smile as the bird cocked its head to the side as if considering his words.
Then, suddenly, it was across the park in a flurry of stubby wings. The quail hit the ground at the edge of a bramble bush, and it wasted no time in running the rest of the way, disappearing under the protective tangle of thorns and brambles. The man's laughter chased along behind, echoing in the gathering twilight.
"Well then, I suppose that means I will not have a quail for dinner tonight..." The man mused, getting up from where he had been sitting all this time. He carefully brushed himself off, straightening both pancho and hat as he looked around, smoothing shirt and pants as he brushed off the dust. His movements and attitude seemed to personify the delicate neatness of a cat. An illusion not easily shattered by the graceful, feline primping after he had dusted himself off.
Finally, seemingly satisfied with his condition, the vagrant gave the park one last look, his eyes settling on the quail's hiding spot last of all. With another wry smiled, he bowed to the bush, removing his hat in a flourishing bow of gratitude.
"Thank you, Brother Quail, for the lodging. May White Shell woman bless you and all your offspring...!"
With another flourish, the hat was back on, and the man looking about one more time, as if deciding where to go. He cocked his head sidewise as another gust of breeze--now more like an honest wind, grabbed the sails of his hair and pulled. The man closed his eyes, sniffed the air, and then nodded.
"Yes...of course..." He whispered, and his eyes slid open once more. With a step, he was away from the swing set. With another, he was, literally, gone, leaving the park empty of all tenants but the quail.
And the soft notes of ghostly laughter on the wind.
