Thursday, June 25, 2009

Heroes... Chapter Seven - "Harbordown by Night"

Howdy! This is the newest chapter of "Heroes..." and features almost everyone you've met so far, and introduces two more - you'll know them when you see them.

Please remember, I am actively seeking feedback on this. Please let me know what you think. My plan is this: if it sees publication, those folks who have given me regular feedback - or plenty of it - will find their names listed in the dedication. I am not kidding about this. It's very important to me.

This is a long chapter - nearly 4000 words. I thank you for reading!

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Chapter Seven
Harbordown By Night



“Good evening, Dunbar.”

“Mr. Jerrold.”

“You’ve come for the bounty, I assume.”

“I have,” Dunbar said.

“Just a moment; it’s in the back. Watch the front, will you?” Titus Jerrold, Harbordown’s exchequer, left him alone in the front office. Dunbar drifted to the only wall that interested him. A dozen hand-copied posters hung there, the gallery of felons whom the city most wished to have in custody. A dozen hard faces drawn in ink glared down as Dunbar perused their crimes. Two-Dagger Hamish’s poster was gone, along with his list of crimes. The face of a church-thief was nailed in its place. Dunbar memorized the face, name, and list of crimes. Before Mr. Jerrold returned, he was waiting at the exchequer’s desk.

“I’ll need you to sign,” Mr. Jerrold said.

“Of course.” Dunbar signed his name in florid script on the receipt offered him and pushed it back across the desk.

“Ten silver sails,” Jerrold told him, placing a fist-sized sack in his hand. “I’ve broken it into shields and pennies, as you prefer.” As usual, Dunbar weighed it in his hand and slipped it inside his shirt.

“Is there still no word on Jaan Craymore or Den Tuller?” Dunbar pointed to the oldest posters.

“No,” the exchequer told him, folding the receipt neatly. “We’ve heard nothing from Tuller; he’s simply vanished. We believe Craymore took ship and left months ago. He has family in Northport, we’re told.”

“Another one gone to sea.”

“It’s the simplest way to avoid capture.”

“It’s cowardly,” Dunbar stated.

“Yes,” Mr. Jerrold said, “but not too many wish to remain here and be nabbed by the Watch or be caught up by the city’s finest bounty hunter.”

“I’m not yet the finest. Burrell the Bold still holds that honor.”

“He has retired, Dunbar.”

“Until I – or someone else – surpasses his number of retrievals, he’s the best.”

“Have it your way. Will you be attending the hanging?”

“The trial hasn’t been held yet.”

“What’s your point?”


* * *

“Are ye ready?” asked the man dressed in red and black.

The woman dressed as he was looked up and nodded. She pulled on her boots and stood up, flipping hair out of her eyes.

“I’m ready.” She spoke a language not often heard in Harbordown.

“Speak Talberan,” the man said. “Ye know I can’t understand ye.”

“Ready,” she said.

“Good. I’ve got our place picked out. It’ll do.” He turned and saw her blades lying on the bed, near where they had just been.

“Don’t faerget yer swaerds.”

“Knives,” she said in perfect Talberan, sliding the blades into their sheaths.

“Knives then,” Jaan Craymore said. “Let’s get moving. That lamplighter’s not going to kill himself.”


* * *

Malcolm sighed. He leaned back in the huge copper bath, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Steam clouded around him and embedded sea salt started to loosen from his skin. The only thing he missed about land while he was at sea was being able to get properly clean. The two pints of water he was allotted per day for ablutions simply didn’t cut it.

With his eyes still closed, he reached out toward a small table holding a tray, a glass, and a bottle. He fumbled a moment, found the glass, and slid it away. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and drank deeply. He sighed again and set the bottle back on the tray. Fine, he thought, two things. There were two things he missed when he was at sea.

He inhaled the aroma of the bath oils, the scents of jasmine and lavender. With the scalding water seeping into his muscles, he relaxed further. Content, he slipped into sleep. When he jerked awake, a sharp blade rested against his throat. He looked into the eyes of the woman holding it.

“Hello, Raeline.”

“Good evening, Mr. McMarsen,” she said.

Malcolm pulled away from the razor and turned to look at her. She was young, with blond hair and bright green eyes. He knew she’d never be called beautiful, but he suspected she’d often been called pretty. She was nude but for the comb in her hair and the razor in her hand.

Three things – three things he missed about land when he was at sea.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Malcolm?”

“As many times as I’ve had to tell you that we run a respectable place, Mr. McMarsen,” she said. “Now are you going to let me shave you?”

Malcolm made himself comfortable as Raeline lathered his face and used the bright blade to scrape it smooth. He sat still until she finished. When she grabbed soap and sponge and started washing his back and shoulders, he sighed in her direction.

“That’s my favorite part,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Whenever you touch me…that’s my favorite part.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“No, no. You can encourage me all you want,” Malcolm said.

She laughed until a rap at the door spoiled the moment.

“Enter!” Malcolm roared.

A short, balding man entered the room. He was dressed conservatively, yet squarely within fashion.

“Mr. Trowbridge. It’s good to know your bathhouse’s service hasn’t suffered while I was at sea.”

The proprietor bowed. “Thank you, Mr. McMarsen. The man from Lamaster’s has arrived with some samples.”

“Excellent. Send him in, please.”

Trowbridge bowed again and left, shutting the door behind him.

“Want to help me pick out some new clothes, Raeline?”

“Don’t I always, Malcolm?”

“Yes, you do.” He paused. “Did you call me Malcolm?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do it again.”

“Not now. Maybe later tonight I will.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow and smiled.


* * *

The sign over the shop read “Danerel’s Keys & Locks.” Melbourn threw open the door and let the hinges squeak, as he knew they would do. The man behind the high desk didn’t glance in his direction; he continued chatting with the customer in front of him. Melbourn crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. It was useless to attempt to be stealthy here; one simply couldn’t sneak up on Danerel.

Danerel Snowmantle had been one of the city’s most successful thieves. He’d never been caught, never even been seriously considered a criminal. He retired at age thirty and went into business as a fence. Now he bought items from other thieves, rarely asking questions, but often taking notes. Melbourn knew that he remained retired, but only from thieving. He still dabbled occasionally in piracy, kidnapping, and smuggling. The man had rooms all over Harbordown and on Castigan Island. He had a home in Port Wehry that Melbourn knew of and owned a portion of Tattenrall Station, a cattle ranch on the north end of the big island. Melbourn was certain that Danerel had more even more homes, more businesses, and more secrets. Only a terrible fence would let anyone know all the dirt – even if they claimed to be friends.

Melbourn unfolded his arms and stepped away from the door – business at the desk was done. He nodded to the customer as she passed, and waited for her to leave. As the door closed, he crossed to the desk and dropped the scroll case on it.

“You’re late,” Danerel said.

“I’ve been busy – and so were you.”

“Bah. Selling Goodwife Horrocks a new set of keys isn’t busy. Would you like her house number and a spare key?”

“No. You’d probably send me to the home of a watch commander.”

“For anyone who’d steal from a goodwife? You’re right. I’d also send you there for making me work past dusk. There’s a lot of bad folk out there. What do you have?”

“This.” Melbourn uncapped the case and let the contents slide free.

“Artwork?”

“If this deiscape isn’t a Pevello, I’m a dwarf.”

Melbourn let Danerel pull the multi-colored canvas toward him. The fence removed the protective cloth and spread it out. He glanced over the painting and began to scan its borders. He turned the painting ninety degrees, then another ninety degrees.

Melbourn watched Danerel’s face as the fence looked over the painting. Danerel wasn’t a handsome man, not by any definition of the word. His skin was pale and pasty; his hair three different shades of orange. None of the sharp features appeared to be exactly where they were supposed to be. He often smiled broadly. When he wished it, it was a pleasant smile, but too often his smile shifted into a corpse-like rictus grin. For just a moment, the rictus grin appeared. He looked up at Melbourn; it shifted back to a smile.

“You’re right. He’s hidden his mark up here in the red.”

“What do you think?” Melbourn asked.

“It’s possible I have someone who might want to add this to their collection.”

“Possible? Might?”

“Possible, might, and maybe are the most powerful words.” Danerel favored Melbourn with his smile again. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the charcoal drawing.

“Just a little something I picked up.”

“Hm. Noble features. Is that the Barrendon chin I see?”

Melbourn shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I can’t move charcoal drawings.”

“Maybe not, but you could return it for a tidy reward.”

“I might at that. But I’d have to use a middleman. That cuts into the reward money, you know.”

“Your pain…it touches me,” Melbourn said. “How much for both?”

Numbers clicked, shifted, and aligned themselves behind Danerel’s eyes. Melbourn waited a few seconds for the fence to answer.

Danerel named a sum.

“What? I thought you were my friend!” Melbourn yelped. “But you treat me like a mark.” He named a second, much higher sum.

“You’d break me?” Danerel responded happily. “I have children to feed.”

“You have no children,” Melboun said, shaking his head.

“Not fair. It’s likely there are quite a few ugly little red-hair bastards in the city.” He named a third sum.

Melbourn grabbed at his heart, named a fourth sum, and the game went on.


* * *

“Good evening,” Sloan said, as he sat.

“Who are you?” Lord Cleitus Barrendon asked from across the table.

“Why ask? You know I won’t answer,” Sloan told him, waving to a waiter. “You’ll be paying for dinner, of course.”

They sat opposite each other in the center of the Blue Knight, Harbordown’s most exclusive restaurant. A single white candle flickered between them. Around them, members of the city’s Quality ate their dinners, unaware of the conversation that might possibly affect their futures. Sloan smiled. Rarely had he taken such a risk.

“Bring me the most expensive dinner on the menu,” Sloan told the attentive waiter. “Bring us two, unless it’s snails or worms or any of that. In which case, give us the most expensive dinner that ever grazed, flew, or swam. I’d also like a bottle of expensive wine. Select the color to go with dinner. Don’t forget the amenities: bread, butter, soup, salad, dessert, all that. Oh, and a nice vegetable – preferably something leafy. Lord Barrendon will be paying.”

“Of course.” The waiter turned to face the lord, who nodded and waved him away.

“I want the books. I want all the books,” Barrendon said. “I also want my pipe and the drawing of my great-great-grandmother.” He glared.

“I don’t know anything about the drawing, but you may have the pipe. As for the books…I’m going to keep three. You will get one returned.”

“I want all of them.”

“The priests say it’s a good thing for the soul to want.”

“I need those books to do my business.”

“Oh no, my lord, you need one to do business. You have chosen to use four. No one needs four ledgers. This is my proposal.”

“Proposal?”

“Don’t mistake the soft wording for the soft option. If you prefer, I’ll use the firm, and accurate wording. This is what will happen. I will return the one ledger, the one that gives a complete and accurate total of all Barrendon properties, assets, and holdings. I will keep the other three books.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You have no idea what you’re playing at,” Barrendon snarled.

“Don’t I? The city selects its Nine next month.”

Barrendon’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I have. I seem to recall that you may be patriarch of one of the nine most powerful families, but you are far from the most powerful. The Barrendons fall seventh, I believe.”

“Keep your voice down,” Barrendon hissed. “And it’s sixth.”

“Ah, well. Congratulations. Of course, without the one true ledger, the total value of the family’s holdings will appear to be much, much less – enough to ensure that you will fall to fifteenth or sixteenth at best, and therefore you will no longer be in power. It seems to me that the Beltaynes or the Slandos are both in position to claim your spot. How long between selections?”

“Ten years,” Barrendon answered darkly.

“If you do what I ask, I will return that one ledger, and you get to continue to prove to the selection agents why you should remain one of the city’s rulers. It shouldn’t be too difficult; it looks like you’ve done very well this year. I will keep the other books. Judging by them, I’d guess that you’re not a major contributor to the city at tax time.”

He paused as the waiter set a basket of trifles in front of them. Sipping from his water glass, he watched Barrendon struggling to remain calm. Only when the waiter was away, did he continue.

“It seems you pay taxes on only about twenty percent of your holdings. The sun has risen over House Barrendon, and it’s time you paid your dues.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Besides multiplying your taxes by five, I have only one demand, and it’s a simple one. Your son, Donol, has gotten a common girl with child. He marries her. Your problem ends.”

“You jest,” Barrendon said after a moment.

“I do not,” Sloan responded, somewhat taken aback.

“That’s the fifth commoner he’s done this to. I’ve simply paid them off every other time.”

“That won’t be good enough,” Sloan said. “He marries her.”

“And then I get back my ledger?”

“You have it correct.”

“When do I get it?”

“After I’ve enjoyed your generosity at the wedding, which you will pay for.”

“I want proof that I’ll get it back.”

Sloan shook his head. “No. You may choose to believe me, or not. But if it’s convincing you need, let me say this: I dislike all of you. I could care less which families rule Harbordown. What I get from this is seeing that the right thing is done for a young woman.”

“What about the drawing?”

“I know nothing about it,” Sloan said, irked by the change of direction. “I wasn’t in your home.”

“Clearly you hired that man that was.”

“Clearly.”

Barrendon glared at him without speaking as the waiter opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass. The lord lifted to his lips and drank the contents in one swallow.

“Pour a third glass,” Sloan told the waiter.

“Sir?”

“Pour a third glass. My wife will soon be joining us.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Shall I change the menu?”

“No. Lord Barrendon will soon be leaving.”

The waiter filled Sloan’s glass, refilled Barrendon’s, and hurried off to fetch a third.

“You’ll not survive this, you know.”

“Oh, I will,” Sloan said. “By the time you get your one ledger back, I’ll have it so covered in spells and rituals that every time you even think of doing something vicious to me, a page will disintegrate. You have my word on that.”

“Ridiculous. You’ll not be able to find a sorcerer to do that.”

“You would be right, were I not the sorcerer. Her name is Ananda Aristei. Learn it, my lord. She is to be your daughter-in-law.”

Barrendon stood. “Ananda. Yes, I believe I remember that name. Donol called her Nanda. As in, ‘that whore, Nanda.’”

Sloan was quiet for a moment.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, “I’m keeping your pipe.”

“Piss on the pipe. I have others.”

“Pay the bill, my lord. I’ll not have you upset my meal further.”

“This is not over.”

“I don’t expect it is – not until the wedding.”

When Barrendon had left the room, Sloan reached into his pocket and drew out the stolen pipe. He held it in his hand as the waiter cleared away Barrendon’s glass and poured a new one. After he left, Sloan raised the pipe to admire the craftsmanship. Satisfied that it had been worth stealing, he turned it in his fingers and held it by the stem.

It shattered when he slammed it into the edge of the table.


* * *

Dunbar tossed the bag Mr. Jerrold had given him onto his desk and unbuckled his sword belt. Only when his belt and blade were hung on the correct pegs on the wall and his boots drying on their rack did he take the seat behind the desk. He pulled an inkwell toward him. Dabbing a quill pen into it, he wrote directly on the bag: “Two-Dagger Hamish,” then “10S.” He replaced the pen and walked over to a small chest. Unlocking it, he lifted the lid out of the way and placed the bag inside, on top of a pile that nearly filled the chest. He smiled and closed the lid.


* * *

Tzal staggered and stumbled, falling down the last two stairs. He smashed his knees on the hard-packed dirt and fell forward. Unable to get his hands up in time, his chest and face slammed into the ground. Desperate to get his breath back, his heart throbbing, Tzal lay unmoving for several minutes. His joints burned, his fingers had cramped, and bands of pain had wrapped around his head. He breathed raggedly, doing his best to ignore the pain, trying to focus on something far more troubling.

For the first time since he had become a full priest, he was empty; he had drained his soul of every iota of magic; nothing connected him to Semessa’s divine presence. Other priests used to say that they felt naked without their ability to channel Her power, but he felt more violated than anything else. It was as if he had been raped by his own desire to help others. He had gone too far and lost touch with Her.

He tried to move, but his muscles hurt so much he made no progress. He stayed where he was, lying flat on the ground, his feet elevated only by their accidental placement on the bottom stair. Only because it had fallen next to his face did he know that the people of Torval’s Alley had left his bag alone. The people had been more frightened of him than he was of them. He had come into their homes and healed man after woman after child. One couple was sick for reasons other than bad water, and one young man with a knife wound in his side wasn’t bothered by anything as piddling as a fever. Tzal chuckled to himself, and then went into spasms of pain. He smiled, accepted the pain, and laughed out loud.


* * *

Craymore stood in a pool of shadow, watching her come back to him. Only the silhouette of her lean warrior form was visible in the light behind her. She’d kept this one a bit more subtle – only extinguishing half a dozen lamps along Black Cat Cut. The boy would be here soon enough to relight them.

She sauntered to him, hands on her knife hilts.

"Finished.”

He didn’t ask her to translate; he was fairly certain he knew what she had said. He moved into a doorway, to conceal himself further. She joined him, pressing herself against him.

“It won’t be long,” he said.

He felt, rather than saw her nod.

“Same as last time,” Craymore said. “I’ll grab the boy. You do the work.” He glanced over into her pale, scarred face. “Unless yer going to need the help.”

She parted her lips and smiled, shaking her head.

He glanced at her teeth a moment – teeth that had been filed to sharp points – and smiled back.


* * *

Tzal staggered out of Torval’s Alley and back onto Anchorage Street. For about the tenth time in ten minutes, he wished Gitto or Ruben were still around. Gitto left not long after Tzal had begun helping the others; Ruben vanished a few hours later. With no one to assist him, the exhausted priest stopped on the street and looked quite literally up and down Anchorage.

To his left, the street gently declined; to his right, it climbed a steep hill. He glanced back to the left, preferring the idea of not climbing, but he didn’t like the narrow street or the shadows that permeated it, lit only as it was by the flickering oil lamps. To the right, the way seemed a bit safer, a bit brighter. Up near the top of the hill he glimpsed a warm pool of light.

“It’s uphill all the way,” he told himself.

Ten minutes climbing brought him to a roadway plateau. A block or so away, a bright line shone higher and brighter than anything else on the street. He cinched up his bag and followed the cobblestone street toward the light. As he approached, he cocked his head. He appeared to be walking toward a lighthouse. A moment later, his sense of scale twisted when he realized the lighthouse was merely the stone façade of a wooden building sitting at an intersection. He smiled.

The lighthouse façade was white, painted with three red diagonal stripes, rising left to right. Atop the façade was the light – a glass lamp the size of a chest. Warm beams of reflected lamplight lit Anchorage and the intersecting road, Candle Street. He found the door in the base of the lighthouse, painted to match the rest of the façade. A signboard hung out over the door, but from this angle, he couldn’t read it.

A trio of old men sat on a long bench next to the door, sharing a long pipe and a bottle. As Tzal approached, the one holding the rippled glass bottle raised it toward him.

“Ye look like ye need a bit o’ this!” The man spoke and chortled.

“I could use a drink,” Tzal admitted.

“Ye come to the right place, ye did,” the one with the pipe said.

“Do they have rooms for rent?”

“Aye,” said the third, who was angling for either pipe or bottle. “Plenty of ‘em. Fact is, they’s always one or two for let. Ask him for the back room.”

Tzal nodded, thanked the men, and looked up at the signboard. He smiled his approval and entered the Shining Way.


Coming Soon - Chapter Eight - "The Shining Way"

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Heroes... Chapter Six - "Tzal"

Greetings! This is the introductory chapter of the last of our five main characters, even though you got a glimpse of him last time. Tzal is a short chapter, barely 7 printed pages - less than 2000 words.

For those who need to know, Tzal is pronounced like the second half of "pizza" with an "L" on the end.

Remember, I am actually rewriting an already-written novel. Since I am seeking publication for this, feedback is the most important thing I need. If you can do it, please let me know what you think. It can be as short or as long, as gentle or as harsh as you'd like. To me, receiving it is the point.

You can leave your comments here, or contact me via email, Twitter, or Facebook. I thank you!

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Chapter Six - "Tzal"



The bald man led Tzal to a building fronting an alley off Anchorage Street. It was old, and a decade ago it had badly needed paint. It hadn’t gotten it. Tzal tried to remember which turns he had taken while keeping up his end of a mostly one-sided conversation. The bald man, he had learned, was Ruben Verner. Ruben used to be a member of the Seaman’s Brotherhood with this other man, Gitto. Gitto’s wife, Zenna, had taken sick a few days ago and had not left the bed. Tzal glanced around the shabby neighborhood, not wondering what could have caused it, but now many different illnesses she may have picked up.

They stopped at the door of the building and Ruben beat on it. After a moment, a short man with the build of a dumpling and a face like an old foot answered the door.

“Gitto,” Ruben said.

“Wait here,” the short man said, slamming the door on them.

“Doorman?” Tzal asked.

“They pay extra for that,” Ruben answered.

A few minutes later, a different man opened the door. He was short, thin, and hunched over. A patina of grime lived in the pores of his skin and Tzal doubted that anything as simple as a bath would remove it. Gitto had an aroma of his own, not a pleasant one. When he grinned, a missing tooth high in his smile broke it. Tzal felt a pang of shame. Had this wretched little man, and not Ruben asked for help, he would likely have dismissed him as a beggar.

The little man shoved his hand toward Ruben, who shook it. Ruben introduced Tzal to Gitto and said that he was a priest.

“O happy day!” the little man said, shoving his hand at Tzal. He grasped it and vowed not to wipe his hand on his tunic until both their backs were turned.

Muttering ‘thank you’s’ the entire way, Gitto led them up a dusty ramshackle staircase. The stairs sank and groaned with every step. Tzal hugged the wall as he ascended to the third floor. He was not surprised to see Ruben do the same; friend or not, the bald man had common sense on his side. They reached a door – one of four on the third floor – and Gitto opened it for them.

“These be my lodgings, and this be my wife.”

The room was small and cramped: a small table and chairs, a rope bed, a trunk, and a hearth barely large enough to cook in. Tzal walked to the bed and set down his bag. Next to the bed, he noticed a tiny side table, decorated with a cracked pitcher and washbowl. In the bed, a softly moaning woman was covered high with blankets. Tzal leaned down. The sickness had aged her; Ruben had told him that she was in her thirties – ten years younger than her husband, but she looked twenty years older now. She shivered and sweated both. Tzal confirmed fever by touching her forehead.

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know, m’lord, she was sick a few mornin’s ago.”

“I’m not a lord, Gitto. What did she eat the night before?”

“I don’t remember…a bit of meat, I think, and a potato. Aye, definitely meat.”

Tzal didn’t ask what kind of meat. He continued to look her over.

“Will you heal her?” Ruben asked. “Are you a healer?”

“I am. But my old teacher used to say that healing only solves the immediate problem. I want to make sure she won’t get sick again.” He looked at the pitcher then sniffed it. Dipping his finger into the water, he tasted it and spat. He glanced at Gitto. Under the grime on his face, he could plainly see bottle blossoms on his cheeks and nose.

“You don’t drink much water, do you?”

“No, sir. Don’t like the taste too much.”

“It shouldn’t taste like that. Your wife?”

“Aye. She can’t stand the ale and milk’s too hard to come by.”

Tzal nodded. “Does she drink a lot of it?”

“Aye. Particularly lately – she’s been like a fish.”

“Is it the water?” Ruben asked.

“I think so. I’ll know in a minute. Gitto, do you and your wife worship Mannanan Mac Lir perhaps?”

“No, sir. I’ve dropped a coin in the waves time and again, but all sailors do that.”

“Is there any god you worship regularly?”

“No, sir.”

“Since I won’t offend the household god, I can do this.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I don’t have much in the way of coin to pay.”

Tzal turned and faced the little man: “Pardon?”

“Forgive me, sir, but I can’t pay you much.”

“This doesn’t cost you anything, Gitto. My gifts are mine to share, not to sell. They’re given to me, for me to pass on to those who need it.” Tzal turned and began to chant. It took only a moment. He rested his hand on her belly. His fingers cooled until they felt icy then warmed suddenly, as if submerged in hot water. Purple sparks danced across the tips of his fingers and the back of his hand. Finally, golden light rose like a mist and drifted across the woman’s body. After a moment, he removed his hand and took a deep breath.

“She’ll be fine. Let her sleep. She’ll wake up exhausted in the morning, but she’ll wake up healthy.” He handed the pitcher to Gitto. “Dump that out and show me where you get your water.”

“Thank you, sir! Did you mean what you said?”

“About what?”

“About not makin’ us pay for this?”

“Of course. Religion is not a business.”

“It is in Harbordown.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tzal said, looking away.

“Everything’s a business here. Everything’s for sale.”

Tzal looked back at Gitto and shook his head.

“I’m not.”


* * *

Gitto led Tzal and Ruben out of the building and to an alley with a small well, little more than a hole in the ground. Tzal glanced around before examining the well. The alley was almost wide enough to be a street, but its atmosphere declared it as a place to be wary. Discarded wood scraps, masonry, and garbage littered the ground. Splashes of rotten grease, dried blood, and other fluids were scattered around. A squad of rats feasted on the putrefying body of a tailless cat. In one corner, two people were asleep under feather-thin blankets.

Tzal knelt by the well and picked up the bucket. It was heavy, waterlogged from years of use. It exuded a slight foul odor.

“It’s here,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Ruben asked.

“I’m going to purify the well.”

“You can do that?” Gitto asked.

Tzal nodded and began to chant. As he did, the stone on his ring began to glow. The men listened, as the simple words of the chant became Words, the verbal facets of magic. Around him, the air grew denser, cooler. Keen eyes might even have noticed mists of condensation rising from the ring. Anyone focusing on the chant would have heard nonsensical words becoming non-words, increasingly harder and harder to hear. By the time he was ready to unleash the purification spell, the Words had evolved beyond the point where they were merely heard and had moved to a place where they affected all six senses; they carried an undertone of white noise, but they could now be felt, smelt, seen, tasted, and captured in a thought. Ruben, Gitto, the sleeping beggars, and a few approaching people all suddenly felt a light pleasant tickling between the shoulder blades; the tiniest hints of apples blossoms crossed their noses and tongues; their vision came to a slightly crisper focus; and, for only a second, each of them thought of their mothers.

Pure white light danced along Tzal’s fingers. He smiled, understanding what had caused the corruption. White light sprang from his fingers and entered the well as he released the incantation. He stood, feeling clean, and told Gitto that the body of a diseased cat had gotten in the well and was poisoning the water. He told him how far down it was. It would need to be recovered soon, to keep the rot from returning.

A worried-looking bystander, a man whose sense of style and cleanliness split the difference between Ruben and Gitto, asked what he was doing.

“He’s cleaned the well, bless him, he did!” Gitto said.

“Cleaned the well?”

“It was poison. He cleaned it up and saved my wife, too!” Gitto crowed, pointing to Tzal. “He’s a priest, this genne’man is!”

Tzal smiled and began to say it was his pleasure to help, but before he could, the bystander rushed at him, grabbing his sleeve and begging for assistance. Tzal asked what he needed. His son was sick, and his son drank from the well. Tzal started to speak, but someone else grabbed him. He spun. A young woman had a sick baby – would he help? He nodded and heard Gitto’s voice rise above the rest:

“He said he wasn’t for sale!”

Tzal stood straight and looked over the young woman’s head at Gitto, who was speaking to a group of shocked Harbordowners. The man with the sick son grabbed his left hand; the woman with the sick baby clutched his right. Both needed him then. He told them both he’d help them. As he spoke, he heard a shrill whistle and looked up. Two stories above, a woman said her husband was sick. Next to that window, a little boy yelled out that his mamma wasn’t moving. The man pulled at his left arm and the young mother entreated him to come with her. A crowd gathered, some needing him, some just watching. Ruben stood aside, watching and smiling.

“Did you plan this?” Tzal yelled to the bald man.

“On my word, I did not.”

From above came another cry of help. Tzal looked up and smiled. As a priest, he’d always done his best to serve. Yet he’d never once been asked to serve so many. He’d only arrived, but he had found something good to do.

He glanced at the young mother. “Follow me,” he said.

He turned and faced the first man who had asked him to help. Tzal nodded to him.

“Take me to your son,” he said. “I’ll help him. I’ll help everyone I can.”


Continue with Chapter Seven - "Harbordown by Night"

Monday, June 8, 2009

Welcome to the New Writer's Washroom Annex!

After several weeks of frustration with the site where I was archiving my work - and linking to Works-in-Progress, I decided the time had come to change the archives.

In other words, it was time to move the Annex. After trying a few different sites, and considering trying to "host my own URL" and such - which is so far beyond my technical ken that it makes my head hurt, I finally decided on this.

Yes, it's a blog. But, heck, I've pretty much always called the Washroom my 'blogsite.' It's all just terminology to me.

I've made this as user-friendly as I can. In the left-hand side are "starting points" for works-in-progress and for the various types of non-fiction I've written and published. A link to The Pop-Up Prophecy script, and the short film made from it are there as well.

I made the decision not to repost Wasteland, the appalling short story I wrote and had published back in the day, because I'm going to rewrite the damn thing as practice. When it's complete - which shouldn't be long - I'll post it here.

I've also posted an unpublished script, Afterword, which was written by myself and Thomas Beck - one of my good friends and long-time blog members.

For Heroes..., The Wyrd Magnet, and Conduit, each chapter in each work is linked to the next. At the bottom of the Heroes... Prologue is the link to Chapter One. This will be standard operating procedure.

Please look around and check things out. Some of this is fun to read, and some is just informative. I've reposted a couple of items from works here to the main blog, so you can see where this comes from.

It's taken about two days to put this together, link it all, and de-clutter the main blog. I'm fairly well delighted with the results, so I won't be offended if you just want to do some reading here. (Oh, yes, I borrowed a clue from a reader and decided to go with printer-friendly black text-on-white background. You are very welcome.)

Feel free to leave comments here, there, or anywhere you wish. I'm happy to have the readers. At the moment, I'd suggest that if anyone wants to become a "Friend & Member" on the blog, to consider joining at the main one. That will still be the site where most of my work is done. This is primarily to give readers an easy way (finally!) to dig through my stuff.

Welcome to the Annex! Please enjoy!

Heroes... starting point - Prologue - "Darkness"

The Wyrd Magnet starting point - Chapter One - "Sub-culture"

Conduit starting point - Prologue - "Obelisks"

Non-fiction starting point

The Pop-Up Prophecy (script and short film)

Afterword (script only)

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Afterword (written with Thomas Beck)

This was the first script I ever (co-)wrote. Tom and I worked well together, and there is no way to tell who did what. We both came up with ideas, cut lines, trashed each other's lines, trashed our own lines, and - at times - came up with the exact same bits of dialogue. This can't even be broke down as to who did what draft. We did first draft, second draft, and we did the rewrites. It's completely shared, feels like me, and feels like him, too. It's one of my favorite pieces. I hope someone, someday takes a shot on this. It's long - about 25 printed pages, but due to the dialogue, it reads very quickly.

Yes, I know it's not formatted to script specs, but I haven't yet been able to do that in a blog form. I've tried to make it so it is easy to read.


FADE IN:

INT. HALLWAY

A person walks into a hallway. It is typical for an largish office building, poorly lit by fluorescent lighting. This person walks slowly down the hallway, footsteps echoing slowly and somberly, giving the impression that this is a man. He continues walking, his eyes like a camera, until he comes to a small room.

INT. SMALL ROOM

He enters a room the size of a large closet with what appears to be a two-way mirror that looks into another room. There is an MAN and WOMAN in here who look at the newcomer as he comes in, greeting him with a nod. They are dressed in somber suits, and appear to be in their fifties. He joins the two, turning to the window to see:

INT. ROOM

This is a fairly large room, bereft of any type of decoration. The walls are all stark white and there is one door on the right hand wall. The only furniture in the room is a rectangular, wooden, medium-sized table with two chairs that face each other from opposite sides. The table is not in the center of the room, but more towards the right hand side, as if the table is used as an office desk.

Sitting at the left-hand chair at the desk is CATHY STEVENS. She is disoriented, looking around the room trying to understand where she is.

MR. MICHAELS comes in the door, closing it behind him. He is carrying a heavy, closed-front clipboard. He sits down in the empty chair, looking at Cathy. He flips open the front of the clipboard, consults it for a moment, then shuts it.


MICHAELS

----Hello, Mrs. Stevens. You are married, aren't you? It is Mrs., isn't it?

The door Mr. Michaels walked in from disappears unnoticed by Cathy.

CATHY

----What?

MICHAELS

----It is Mrs. Stevens, is it not? You are married?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Good. What is your husband's name?

CATHY

----Martin.

MICHAELS

----Do you live together?

CATHY

----Yes. Where am...

MICHAELS

----Do you have children?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Their names, please.

CATHY

----Jason and Melissa.

MICHAELS

----Good. Nice names.

CATHY

----Thank you.

MICHAELS

----Do you consider yourself a good person?

CATHY

----Pardon?

MICHAELS

----Do you consider yourself a good person?

CATHY

----I don't know.

MICHAELS

----I see. How old are your children?

CATHY

----Jason is nineteen months; Melissa is three.

MICHAELS

----And you are?

CATHY

----Are what?

MICHAELS

----Your age, Mrs. Stevens.

CATHY

----Thirty-eight.

MICHAELS

----And your husband, Martin, I believe you said?

CATHY

----Martin is also thirty-eight.

MICHAELS

----That's unusual, isn't it?

CATHY

----What?

MICHAELS

----Having children this late in life?

CATHY

----That's none of your business. And just who are...

MICHAELS

----I am Mr. Michaels. How long have you been married?

CATHY

----Eleven years.

MICHAELS

----Are you happy?

CATHY

----Yes. Martin's a wonderful husband.

MICHAELS

----Really.

He opens the clipboard, takes a pen from inside, and makes a note. She cannot see what he writes.

CATHY

----And a good father.

MICHAELS

----I'm glad to hear that. Do you own any guns?

CATHY

----What?

MICHAELS

----Do you own any firearms?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Are they yours, or Martin's?

CATHY

----Martin's. He keeps one for protection.

MICHAELS

----Where?

CATHY

----In the nightstand. Why are you asking?

Michaels makes another note in the clipboard, then seems to peruse it for a moment.

MICHAELS

----Do you know a Lester Mayhew?

CATHY

----Who?

MICHAELS

----Lester Charles Mayhew.

CATHY

----No.

Michaels makes another note on the clipboard, then closes it.

MICHAELS

----Are you happy?

CATHY

----What do you mean?

MICHAELS

----You. Are you happy?

CATHY

----I suppose so.

MICHAELS

----Do you consider yourself a good person?

CATHY

----I
(beat)
----I don't know.

MICHAELS

----Your husband. What does he do for work?

CATHY

----He's a vice-president for a telecommunications company.

MICHAELS

----He's a good father?

CATHY

----Yes. I've already told you so!

MICHAELS

----Are you a good mother?

CATHY

----I believe so.

MICHAELS

----So, you're good parents.

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----But you keep a gun in the nightstand.

Cathy does not answer. She seems a bit confused, and a bit guilty.

MICHAELS (CONT'D)

----Don't you, Mrs. Stevens?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Is it locked?

CATHY

----No.

MICHAELS

----No gun lock? No lock on the drawer?

CATHY

----No.

MICHAELS

----And it's loaded, isn't it?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----For protection.

CATHY

----Yes. Martin often works late. He got it for us, to be safe.

MICHAELS

----I see.

He stands, and sits on a corner of the table.

MICHAELS (CONT'D)

----Mrs. Stevens, do you consider yourself a good person?

CATHY
(excitably)

----Why do keep asking me this?

MICHAELS

----Do you work, Mrs. Stevens?

Cathy pauses a moment to process the change of direction.

CATHY

----Not at the moment. I stopped working when Melissa was born.

MICHAELS

----What did you do before then?

CATHY

----I was in public relations, for a hospital.

MICHAELS

----Did you find that satisfying?

CATHY

----Well, honestly...no.

MICHAELS

----Why?

He stands, and goes back to his seat, sits.

CATHY

----There were too many lies, and too many half-truths.

MICHAELS

----It bothered you to lie?

CATHY

----Of course. Doesn't it bother everybody?

Michaels stares at her, encouraging her to elaborate.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----We told people that our hospital was the best. We advertised that we were, when we weren't. We swept lawsuits under the rug and used the budget to hire lawyer and run ads. We should have hired better people, bought better equipment. The lies just got to be too much.

MICHAELS

----You said you were not working at the moment. Are you planning to change fields?

CATHY

----I don't know, but I know I don't want to do that anymore.

MICHAELS

----You quit your job when you had your daughter?

CATHY

----No, I had quit working about a year before I got pregnant.

MICHAELS

----Planned?

CATHY

----Yes. Martin and I decided we wanted a family.

MICHAELS

----Did that make you happy?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----You like being a mother?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Are you a good mother?

CATHY

----I'd like to think so.

MICHAELS

----Were you happy when Jason was born?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Have you been planning on having another child?

CATHY

----No.

MICHAELS

----Why not?

CATHY

----I...we decided two was right.

MICHAELS

----And that makes you happy?

Cathy pauses a moment before answering.

CATHY

----As you said, most women my age aren't having children.

MICHAELS

----Actually, I asked you if it was unusual to be having children this late in life. I asked. I did not state.

CATHY

----You're right.

MICHAELS

----Does your family attend church?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----How often?

CATHY

----Once a week. Sunday mornings.

MICHAELS

----Regularly?

CATHY

----My husband says religiously.

She has a slight smile on her face as she looks at Michaels. He just looks at her.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----I suppose it's not very funny.

MICHAELS

----Not really. Are you raising your children in the church?

CATHY

----I think so. They come with us, but they're not really old enough to understand it yet.

MICHAELS

----What would you do if your children grew up and decided to leave the church?

CATHY

----I suppose I'd want them to make their own choice.

MICHAELS

----Would that make you happy?

CATHY

----As long as my children are happy, I'm happy.

MICHAELS

----You base your happiness on the emotions of others?

CATHY

----I don't know what you mean. Could I have some water?

Michaels stands up and starts to pace.

MICHAELS

----You allow the emotions of those around you to determine your level of happiness?

CATHY

----I don't really understand. Don't all parents do that?

MICHAELS

----If your child is hurt, does it make you unhappy?

CATHY

----Of course!

MICHAELS

----Does your unhappiness then affect your child? Do your emotions change the way they feel?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----­So you make them feel worse when they are already unhappy?

CATHY

----No!

MICHAELS

----How do you avoid it?

CATHY

----I don't let them know I'm unhappy.

MICHAELS

----You repress your emotions to keep others happy?

CATHY

----Not all the time.

Michaels sits again on the edge of the desk.

MICHAELS

----With your children?

CATHY

----Only now. They're young. They don't understand yet that mama cries, too.

MICHAELS

----Why do you cry?

CATHY

----When they are hurt.

MICHAELS

----That's when. I asked why.

CATHY

----Why?

MICHAELS

----Why do you cry?

CATHY

----I...It's an emotional release. Look, I don't like these questions. I don't understand...

MICHAELS

----Do you repress your emotions for your husband?

CATHY

----Not all...no!

MICHAELS

----Honestly please, Mrs. Stevens. You repress yourself to keep others happy, do you not?

CATHY

----Everyone does that to one extent or another.

MICHAELS

----They do?

Michaels sits back down in his chair.

CATHY

----Certainly. Not everyone can wear their heart on their sleeve at all times. You have to edit yourself. Suck it up, my father would say.

MICHAELS

----Isn't that dishonest?

CATHY

----No!

MICHAELS

----Repressing how you feel and fooling others about your emotional state isn't a lie, or a half-truth?

CATHY

----No, it's not. It's a sign of emotional maturity.

MICHAELS

----You're emotionally mature?

CATHY

----I am.

MICHAELS

----Does that make you a better parent?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Does that make you a better person?

CATHY

----I don't know.

MICHAELS

----Are you a good person?

CATHY
(angrily)

----I don't know!

MICHAELS

----Why not?

Cathy pauses a moment, thinking about her answer.

CATHY

----It's not right to judge for yourself if you're good or bad.

MICHAELS

----Then who judges?

CATHY

----What do you mean?

MICHAELS

----Do you know why you're here?

CATHY

----No! Why?

MICHAELS

----You say you don't know Lester Charles Mayhew?

CATHY

----I've already told you!

MICHAELS

----So you have. Are you quick to anger, Mrs. Stevens?

CATHY

----No!

MICHAELS

----Prone to acts of violence?

CATHY

----Of course not!

MICHAELS

----Do you spank your children?

CATHY

----Yes.
(beat)
----But only if they deserve it.

MICHAELS

----Who decides if they deserve it?

CATHY

----I do. Or Martin. But I only...

MICHAELS

----Does Martin spank them?

CATHY

----Yes...

MICHAELS

----Yes, but, Mrs. Stevens?

CATHY

----He doesn't like to do it.

MICHAELS

----Do you enjoy it?

CATHY

----No!

MICHAELS

----So you decide what's right or wrong. You judge.

CATHY

----I have to. They're my children. They're not old enough. They don't know they've misbehaved.

MICHAELS

----You punish them when they don't understand what they've done.

CATHY

----Of course they don't understand. They're young.

MICHAELS

----You believe in discipline?

CATHY

----Yes. But it's not often. They're good kids. And it's never more than a swat on the rump.

She pauses as she processes this experience.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----Am I in trouble?

MICHAELS
(coolly)

----Mrs. Stevens, you took a life.

CATHY

----What?

MICHAELS

----You took a human life.

Cathy is speechless, but tries to stammer.

MICHAELS (CONT'D)

----What is the last thing you remember?

He opens his clipboard again.

Cathy tries to put her thoughts together.

CATHY

----Thunder.

MICHAELS

----Elaborate.

CATHY

----I remember thunder. Jason crying.

MICHAELS

----What else?

CATHY

----I can't remember. Do I need a lawyer?

MICHAELS

----No. Do you remember Lester Mayhew?

CATHY

----No. Can I have some water?

MICHAELS

----Focus, Mrs. Stevens. You haven't answered the question yet.

CATHY

----I didn't kill anyone.

MICHAELS

----Mrs. Stevens...

Cathy is beginning to get agitated.

CATHY

----It's that Lester. You think I killed that man.

MICHAELS

----Mrs. Stevens...

CATHY

----What's on the clipboard? What are you writing?

MICHAELS

----Are you happy?

CATHY
(angrily)

----I want to see the clipboard!

MICHAELS

----What else do you remember?

CATHY
(angrily)

----What are you writing?

MICHAELS

----Are you a good person?

CATHY

----Shut up!

She leaps up, grabbing the clipboard from across the table, and throws it across the room. She faces Michaels and screams at him with hatred,

CATHY (CONT'D)

----Stop asking me that!

Michaels regards her calmly, unaffected by her hysterics.

MICHAELS

----I see that you lied earlier.

CATHY
(angrily)

----What?

MICHAELS

----You said you were not prone to acts of violence.

Cathy stares at him, then begins to sag.

Michaels stands.

MICHAELS (CONT'D)

----Mrs. Stevens. Sit. Down.

Cathy sits back down.

Michaels sits back down.

MICHAELS (CONT'D)

----What do you remember besides thunder?

CATHY

----The crying.

MICHAELS

----Where were you?

CATHY

----At home. It was raining, I think.

MICHAELS

----Go on.

CATHY

----I was in the kitchen. It was raining. Not hard, but it was threatening to get worse. I was alone. I heard Jason crying.

MICHAELS

----Has he started the "terrible twos?"

CATHY
(confused)

----No. Not yet.

MICHAELS

----Did Melissa get through them?

CATHY

----Yes, she did. She discovered "no", then discovered stomping her foot.

She seems relieved at the change of conversation, and allows herself a slight smile.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----For months, everything we said, she would shout "no" and stomp. "Bath time, Melissa." "No!"

She stomps the floor, mimicking her daughter.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----"Time for dinner." "No!"

She stomps.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----Even "Want some ice cream?" "No!"

She stomps.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----After missing out on ice cream several times, she stopped saying no to everything.

MICHAELS

----You spanked her rarely?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----Martin didn't spank her?

CATHY

----He doesn't like to. He doesn't believe in it.

MICHAELS

----He does sound like a good father.

CATHY

----He is.

MICHAELS

----You said he often works late?

CATHY

----Two or three nights a week, usually, and sometimes he has to work on the weekend.

MICHAELS

----That's too bad.

CATHY

----It comes with his job. But, you know, he is an excellent provider, and he loves me and the
children.

MICHAELS

----You love him.

CATHY

----Completely.

MICHAELS

----He's a good husband.

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----A fine father.

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----A good person?

CATHY

----Yes.

Michaels watches her a moment.

MICHAELS

----You were alone.

CATHY

----Yes...no! Melissa was in the kitchen, playing on the floor. I remember she had a toy car, rolling it back and forth, going "brrrrm." She would do that for hours. It was night, wasn't it?

MICHAELS

----Yes.

CATHY

----Was it last night?

MICHAELS

----Where was your husband?

CATHY

----He was not home. He was working late. Jason was crying. He was in his crib, crying.

MICHAELS

----Where is his crib?

CATHY

----His room. Melissa and I were in the kitchen.

MICHAELS

----It was raining.

CATHY

----Yes. It was starting to get worse. It was thundering hard. Jason was crying.

MICHAELS

----Were you making dinner?

CATHY

----No, we'd already eaten. Tuna, in a casserole. Where am I? Where are my children?

MICHAELS

----They're safe.

CATHY

----They're at home?

MICHAELS

----Yes.

CATHY

----I broke a dish.
(beat)
Jason was crying. I remember glass breaking. I broke the casserole dish.

MICHAELS

----There was thunder.

CATHY

----Yes. There was a storm coming. Jason doesn't like thunder. I went to check on him.

MICHAELS

----In his room?

CATHY

----Yes.

MICHAELS

----What did you hear?

CATHY

----Thunder, Jason crying, glass breaking.

MICHAELS

----Glass?

CATHY

----Yes! I broke a dish!

MICHAELS

----Where was Melissa?

CATHY

----I told her to stay in the kitchen.

MICHAELS

----Why?

CATHY

----The glass.

MICHAELS

----Where was the glass broken?

CATHY

----In Jason's room.

MICHAELS

----Did you break the glass?

CATHY

----No. I broke the dish.

MICHAELS

----Who broke the glass?

CATHY

----I don't know.

MICHAELS

----Yes, you do.

Cathy stares at Michaels, finally understanding.

CATHY

----Lester Mayhew. Where am I?

MICHAELS

----Where do you think?

She pauses a moment, then continues.

CATHY

----The window was broken. Rain was blowing in. There was a man in the room.

MICHAELS

----Go on.

CATHY

----Jason was crying, scared. That was Lester Mayhew, right?

MICHAELS

----Yes.

CATHY

----Who is he?

MICHAELS

----You don't know him.

CATHY

----I screamed, he yelled. Somebody yelled. He pointed at me.
(beat)
I don't know what he wanted.

MICHAELS

----What did you do?

CATHY

----I hit him.

MICHAELS

----With?

CATHY

----The dish. The casserole dish.

MICHAELS

----You had been washing dishes?

CATHY

----Yes. I was drying it. It's heavy glass, you know.

MICHAELS

----I know.

CATHY

----It broke. Glass went everywhere. Blood went everywhere.

MICHAELS

----Where did you hit him?

CATHY

----The face.

MICHAELS

----What did he look like?

CATHY

----I don't know. Broken.

MICHAELS

----And then?

A clear glass pitcher of water and two glasses appears on the desk, off to the side. Cathy does not seem to notice.

CATHY

----There was thunder.

MICHAELS

----Was it thunder?

CATHY

----It sounded like thunder.
(beat)
But it wasn't.

MICHAELS

----No, Mrs. Stevens, it was not. Are you a good person?

CATHY

----Are my children safe?

MICHAELS

----They are with their father. Would you like some water?

Cathy looks over at the pitcher.

CATHY

----Yes.

Michaels pours both glasses full of water, then sets one glass in front of her.

She picks the glass up.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----You know,

She takes a sip of the water.

CATHY (CONT'D)

----I am a good person. I'm a good mother, a good wife. I'm honest. I love unconditionally. I'm not perfect, but there's nothing I've done in my life that I can't forgive myself for.

MICHAELS

----Nothing?

CATHY

----Nothing.

Two doors appear side by side, in the wall behind her.

MICHAELS
(gently)

----Mrs. Stevens -- Cathy -- it's time for you to leave.

He points to the wall behind her, and the doors.

She turns to look at them.

CATHY

----Which door?

MICHAELS

----Which feels correct to you?

CATHY

----This one.

She points to the door on the right.

MICHAELS

----Yes.

Cathy stands, starts toward the door. She turns back to face Michaels.

CATHY

----Martin, will he be all right?

MICHAELS

----He will be a very sad man for many years, but he will be happy again. And he will always be a very good father.

CATHY

----Thank you. The man -- Lester Mayhew -- he's been here?

MICHAELS

----I saw him before you.

CATHY

----Which door did he choose?

­Michaels takes a sip of his water before answering.

MICHAELS

----You chose the right door. He took the door that was left.

Cathy nods, goes to the right door, and exits.

FADE OUT:

Press Releases

These are a few of the press releases I wrote as a freelancer.

El Primero Hotel (B&B based in Chula Vista, California)

Julep Restaurant & Bar (fantastic Jackson-based restaurant)

'Last of the Mississippi Jukes' (blues documentary filmed in Mississippi, broadcast on Starz Networks)

Articles and Features for Other Periodicals

This is some of the work I did for other magazines and periodicals, as a freelance writer.

Cowboy Mouth (New Orleans-based band)

Metal Finishing Service (Jackson-based business)

'Pronounced Cha-Ne' (lifestyle designer)

Planet Weekly Interviews

These are some of my favorite interviews I conducted while writing for Planet Weekly.

David Banner (producer, rapper, actor)

David Cobb (2004 Green Party presidential candidate)

Darrah Johnson (Survivor contestant)

Harvey Johnson (mayor of Jackson, Mississippi)

Dr. Ronald Mason, Jr. (president of Jackson State University)

Rebekah Potter (multi-media artist)

Planet Weekly Columns

These are various columns I wrote for Planet Weekly - under the names "From the Extremes" and "The Bipolar Extremist."

"2004 Post-Election Blahs"

"Adrift on the Sea of Consciousness"

"Bumper-Sticker Politics or the Band That Scared Your Mother Has Sold Out"

"Choose Your Own Election"

"Civil Unions"

"Conventional Migraine"

"Crossroads Film Festival Post-Game Report"

"Deserve vs. Desire"

"A Farewell to Johnny Ramone"

"Geek Flag Ideologies"

"Head vs. Heart"

"The Healing Power of Violence"

"People Are Afraid"

"The Politics of Death"

"The Predator Connection"

"A Random Bit of Twaddle, Geeks, and Frank Melton & the Maytals"

"Run, Rudolph, Run!"

"Santa Claus's Political Affiliations (with Footnotes)"

"Where the Hell Are Them Chemical Weapons?"

Planet Weekly Articles and Features

These are a few of the newspaper articles and feature stories I did as a writer for Planet Weekly.


2004 JSU Juried Student Exhibition Competition (artistic)

The American Astronaut (independent movie)

Jay Fleming (artist)

Brian Fuente (musician)

International Museum of Muslim Cultures (the only museum of its kind in North America)

'Magic on the Court' (feature on wheelchair basketball players)

New Life for Women (rehabilitation center)

New Vibrations (business)

Rammer Jammer Yellowhammer (book review)

'Rugby Gets in Your Blood' (sports)

The Non-Fiction Starting Point

Yes, it's true: I've got quite a bit of non-fiction on this site. I was a columnist, writer - and later the staff writer - for an alternative/community newspaper in Jackson, Mississippi called Planet Weekly. I have also written as a freelancer for other newspapers, magazines, and periodicals. (I've also done some copywriting, but as I don't own those works, I'm not posting any of it here.)

I've broken things into groups. If you want to see some of what I've done, just follow the links. Everything is now hosted on this site.

This isn't everything I've written. In fact it's around 15-20%, but I posted some that I feel proud of, and some that I think reflect the work that I - or the newspaper or periodical - were doing.

I have changed none of the content of the pieces, even if bits are poorly-written, badly-dated, or just cause me to shake my own head. (The one exception is the "New Life for Women" article, and my reasons for changes are listed there.) I have made a few formatting changes - such as italicizing when I forgot to, and removed phone numbers, email addresses, or website addresses that are either no longer in use, or might bring unwanted attention to people in the pieces.

By and large, what you read here is what saw publication. And when I say "publication," I mean print, thank you.

Planet Weekly features and articles.

Planet Weekly columns.

Planet Weekly interviews.

Articles and features from other periodicals.

Press releases.

"The Pop-Up Prophecy"

This is the short film I wrote in 2003, for a Clemson University film festival - the Toaster Film Festival. I gave the script to an obscenely talented bunch of Jackson filmmakers. They're the ones that made it look as good as it did. Don't get me wrong, it's super low-budget, but I'm proud of it, and I'm pretty sure everyone else was, too.

It was the winning entry in the Toaster Film Festival, and it's been shown in a few festivals and film summits since. If you do watch it - and I hope you do - and you feel like, you could wander over to its IMDb page and vote on it. We'd like to know what everyone thinks.

I also want to add that it took 12 hours to film and it's been edited to about 4 different lengths - 3 minutes, 5 minutes, 7 minutes, and 9 minutes. This should demonstrate to budding screenwriters just what a film crew can and will do when they interpret your script. The YouTube version is the 7-minute (6:55) version. I think it's pretty much the best, but what do I know? I'm just a writer.

FADE IN:

INT. KITCHEN -- DAY

A man, average-looking, thirtyish, is moving around his kitchen, getting ready to begin his day. He is a bit rumpled from sleep. He reached into a cabinet to grab a coffee cup. When he moves past, we see an old TOASTER, big and rectangular, all chrome and right angles. It resembles something Mrs. Cleaver would have used. It sits near the sink.

The man, whom we'll call VICTIM, takes his cup and turns toward his coffee maker, putting his back to the toaster. He pours a cup of coffee.

He hears the SHUNK sound of the toaster lifting something up. He turns and looks. A Pop-tart is waiting to be lifted out. Victim looks confused. He reaches for the Pop-tart and pulls it out.
On the tasty toaster pastry a message is written. He reads it out loud.


VICTIM
----"You are going to die."

He looks more confused than scared. He puts the Pop-tart down and looks into the toaster. Seeing nothing, he turns around to pick up his coffee cup.

The toaster SHUNKs again.

He turns around, holding his cup. Another Pop-tart awaits. He is starting to look concerned. He didn't put one in and he didn't push the lever down. He pulls the tart from the slot and reads this frosted message.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----"Soon."

He tosses this message down and looks into the toaster again. There is no hidden Pop-tart. He fiddles with the lever, unplugs it, and then plugs it in again. He turns, to see if anyone is watching him.

The toaster SHUNKs again.

This time he jumps, spinning around. He spills his coffee on himself. He sets the cup down, near a block of sharp knives. The block sits near the ene of the counter. He lunges for the toaster, yanking the Pop-tart out.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----"It will hurt."

He spins around, looking to see if anyone is watching him. He looks out a window for hidden camera crews. He reaches for the cup of coffee and spies the knives. He pulls one slowly out of the block and looks through the kitchen door to the room beyond.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----Hello? Am I on TV or something?

The toaster SHUNKs again.

He jumps, lunging at the toaster again. He slips and hits the sink. The knife flies out of his hand and drops into the sink.

He grabs the Pop-tart. It reads "NO" in large letters. He crushes it and throws it into the sink. He turns the faucet on and turns on the disposal. He grabs the other pastries, crushing them and throwing them into the sink as well. He looks down into the sink.

The Pop-tart bits are in the sink with the knife and the disposal is grinding loudly. He starts to reach for the knife and stops. He looks worried and steps back. He darts a look at the toaster, which waits silently.

Victim looks out the window again and then shuts off the disposal. He turns and moves toward the knives.

The toaster SHUNKs again.

He jumps and leaps simultaneously, grabbing at his knives. The block falls off the counter, scattering knives across the floor. He turns in circles and then rushes back to the toaster. He rips the Pop-Tart out.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----"You are going to die."

He throws it down.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
(shouting)
----Stop talking to me!

The toaster SHUNKs again.

He grabs the Pop-Tart. It says "NO" in large letters.


VICTIM (CONT'D)
(calmer, but still loud)
----You're talking to me!

The toaster SHUNKs as he watches. This time, the tasty toaster pastry is launched into the air, arcing up toward the ceiling and back down into Victim's waiting hands.

He looks down and reads it. This time the frosting says "YES."


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----I'm going to die?

The toaster SHUNKs again.

He pulls the Pop-tart out, slower. The frosting again reads "YES."


VICTIM (CONT'D)
----How?

He watches the toaster. But this time, instead of SHUNKing, it makes a CLICK noise. He looks confused and grabs the toaster. He looks inside. A Pop-tart is wedged inside. He jams his hand into the toaster, trying frantically to grab the fateful pastry.

The toaster begins to smoke and electricity rips through Victim's body. He shakes and grimaces as he is electrocuted. He continues to stand until the electricity stops. He falls to the floor, surrounded by spilled coffee and dropped knives.

The toaster dangles against the counter, held in place by its power cord. It's slots face outward, toward Victim's body. There is a soft grinding noise and the toaster SHUNKs again.

The Pop-tart is launched out of the slot and hits the floor, sliding to a stop next to Victim's face.
The frosting is in the form of a happy face.

The camera pans back to the dangling toaster and then zooms in on the trademark. The trademark reads, "Oracle."

FADE OUT:


Watch "Pop-Up Prophecy" on YouTube.

Check out our IMDb Listing.

Yep, I'm on IMDb, too.

"Where the Hell Are Them Chemical Weapons?"

This column was responsible for my first two death threats. Yep, when it was published, I received my first two within two days, each one coming via email, and each one telling me how I was going to die and for what reasons (the usual - anti-American, unpatriotic, liberal, and so on...) Upon reflection, I think they mistook the term "hate mail" at the bottom of my blurb for "death threats." At the time, people hated everything I wrote (not the columns - just my opinions), and were happy to send in four or five pieces of hate mail a week. I decided to mention hate mail that week. The results were death threats. I never again mentioned hate mail; it seemed a bit short-sighted to do so. But I never backed off my anti-war position and I never toned it down. I also didn't live in fear. I turned over the death threats to the sheriff's department. I received four or five more (I honestly can't remember how many it was) and didn't worry about it. None of these twerps ever killed me, so I got that going for me, which is nice.

The US people can feel proud. We’ve put one in the “Dubya” column, against a third-world enemy with antiquated weaponry and an army made largely of non-soldiers. Dozens of American and British soldiers have lost their lives in this illegal war, but hey! That’s okay, since it means cheaper gas for all of us, right? Now, all that’s left to do is to send our POWs home, install our own puppet government, and make sweeping trade agreements for millions of barrels of cheap oil.

Oh, yes. And find those pesky chemical weapons. These weapons are important to the White House, more important than some people realize. These weapons, which were labeled “Weapons of Mass Destruction,” are the reason for this war. These weapons, not yet found, are the justification that the Governor of the United States used to attack Iraq. And nobody’s found a single one yet.

Right now, most of the world’s population hates us, because of this insane war we’ve undertaken. But there are some who are waiting, giving us the benefit of the doubt, wondering where the chemical weapons are. If we don’t produce any, we will have been proven wrong; and we will find it harder to hold onto allies.

At this point, the White House is so desperate to uncover chemical weapons that any substance in Baghdad which cannot be readily recognized as sugar, salt, or Tabasco sauce is being sent off to be tested for chemical content. They have to. If we are unable to find any chemicals, then we have to admit that the reason we went to war is bullshit. This will not go over well with the Europeans, Arabs, Asians, or in fact with our allies – the few we have – who genuinely believed our intelligence.

I find it highly unlikely that there are any chemical weapons of any sort in Iraq. As many Iraqi POWs as we have taken, and as much information as we have gained, we have not uncovered a single shred of evidence, not a single vial of sarin gas. Just recently, our military managed to find a group of trailers buried in the sand, miles out from the nearest city, in which were found elements of a laboratory. Of course, the White House proudly announced that they had found the proof they were seeking. That is, until US military scientists admitted on CNN that there was no way that these were used to make chemical weapons of any kind. Munitions, yes. Chemicals, no.

Let’s look at it this way. If you were an Iraqi who knew about the chemicals, and you were captured, wouldn’t you offer up the location and contents of these chemical weapons stores for any better treatment you might get? So far, captured Iraqis have spilled the beans about quite a few things, including the buried laboratory equipment. Is it possible to believe that not a single captured Iraqi knows where these Weapons of Mass Destruction are? It is possible, but it is not likely.

Next time, class, we will be discussing Syria. Avoid the rush! Send your hate mail to: yahoo.com.

"Santa Claus's Political Affiliations (with Footnotes)"

There is no reason for this, but this is one of my favorite columns of all time, bar none.

I always wondered what Santa Claus’ political beliefs are, and yes, I know that’s weird. I figured it to be easy to work out what he believes by what he does. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even easy figuring out where he originally came from, but I did a little research and I think I may be a little closer to the answers.

Some say Santa Claus began as St. Nicholas, a Turkish priest and saint, who gave toys and candy to the yard apes of Asia Minor 1700 years ago. He was canonized and became very popular, becoming the patron saint of children, sailors, and several countries. When the Reformation swept Europe, those pesky Protestants made any celebration involving St. Nick illegal. As usual, the Dutch did their own thing and kept Sint Nikolass part of their festivities. When they came to America and snagged the last remaining parking spots in New Amsterdam, they brought a devotion to Sinterklass, as they called him here. When the Dutch were evicted in the 17th Century, their English landlords turned Sinterklass to Santa Claus.

Let’s see: Santa is Catholic, at least partly Dutch, and he settled in New York. He believes in giving gifts to everyone and he works with (ahem) a small minority. By golly, he’s a Blue Stater!

But, honestly, it’s not that simple. Mr. S. Claus is also a shining example of conservatism. He is pro-business and –industry* and it’s a no-brainer that the elves are not unionized. His current look – red-and-white suit, black boots and belt, sack full of toys – was actually created by a Southern corporation (Coca-Cola hired artist Haddon Sundblom to create Santas for advertisements from 1931 to 1964 – it’s his design that children today know). And Santa Claus is in a long-term heterosexual relationship with Mrs. Claus. He is a family value.

He could be an autocrat, the mythical “benevolent dictator” that has so long been debated. We don’t hear about a parliament of elves or that reindeer get to vote. In the same vein, the North Pole could be a theocracy. He is a saint after all, and the Vatican only has a pope.

But this only works if his Catholic origins are correct, which they almost certainly aren’t. No single piece of evidence exists to back the claim of St. Nicholas as a living person. What most folklorists believe is that St. Nicholas was a pagan god ‘christianized’ by the church and given some of the aspects of other pagan gods, like the Greek Poseidon and the Teutonic Hold Nickar. The Church commonly took pagan beliefs and folded them into Christianity, a habit they swiped from the pre-Christian Romans**. He’s not a real saint, so theocracy must be out.

He also can’t be a communist. True communists don’t believe in individual ownership and Comrade Claus certainly does. He can’t be a fascist or imperialist, either. Both require a tough military and a drive to expand. Any military that can use faster-than-light sleighs would have at least invaded Canada by now. I also doubt he’s a monarchist. He’d have to be a king or an emperor, and those types don’t let pee-soaked youngsters squat on their lap.

The North Pole could actually be socialist. Assuming that Santa is the government, he would own the factories (toyshop), means of transportation (reindeer), and the produce (goodies). He would also handle negotiating prices (free to good tots). Further backing a socialist claim is the fact that he lives in an extreme environment**** and must take care of his elves’ needs himself, since no medical insurers have yet opened up North Pole branches. There is also at least a hint of the redistribution of wealth in his ways. But it’s only a hint.

No, Santa is a capitalist. No one affects a fiscal year like old Kris Kringle. He is great for the economy and he puts money in the pockets of retailers, wholesalers, and producers. With the amount of money that changes hands because of him, his belief system cannot be denied. And he is a benevolent capitalist, a strong supporter of charities, and a believer in taking care of those who need help. He is a representation of everything good, not just economically but spiritually. True, he misses the homes of some Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, and Buddhist homes, but not all. Santa Claus has allowed Christmas to come into non-Christian homes and he himself does not insist on a particular belief to be held, to believe in him.

He is appreciated by those of a religious or spiritual nature, and by those who aren’t. He is a benevolent capitalist, doing what he can for those who need it, and for those who simply want it. He has some conservative elements, and some liberal elements. He is complex, nuanced, and not easy to categorize.

Just like a Planet Weekly reader. Merry Christmas to Mr. Claus and to the rest of our complex, nuanced, and hard-to-categorize readers.

--------------------------------------------------

* Of course, he’s also outsourced some of his work to Mattel, Hasbro, and Nintendo, but I suppose that’s part of his bottom-line conservatism.

** Yes, the Church swiped pagan beliefs, but pagan Romans swiped their entire pantheon of gods from the Greeks and renamed them, adding some lame deities like Janus, the God of Doors and Beginnings***, and Flora, the Goddess of Flowers.

*** But Janus is where we get “January,” so he is by default the God of New Year’s Eve. Let’s hoist a glass to mighty Janus!

****. Living in the extreme north means he is no vegan, either. Santa Claus is a meat eater. He and the elves must have much protein to survive. He also uses an endangered species as beasts of burden. This will bother none but the vegeterrorists of PETA. Santa snickers at your Tofurkey.

Next time, the Bipolar Santa will offer up his annual list of who’s been naughty and nice. I’ll take nominations at http://www.writersownwords.com/fckeditor/editor/%22http://www.planetweekly.com/%22.

"Run, Rudolph, Run!"

This was one of my 'angry' political columns that attracted me attention from a certain fringe group I'll call neo-conservatives. They're the ones that sent in letters, demanding I be 1) fired or 2) killed. They went online and bravely called me anti-American, communist, and all that noise. At this point, I'd had half a dozen death threats, and I was enjoying pissing them off every week. I will say, though, that when this story broke, it infuriated me like little else had since the war started.

“People around here, they take care of their own. You can't put a price on a man's head, and I don't know anybody who would have given him up, even for a million dollars.''*

This person is speaking of whom? Osama bin Laden or Saddam Hussein, you might say? You would be wrong. This person, Sarah Greenfield of Marble, North Carolina, is referring to Eric Robert Rudolph, the alleged Olympic Park bomber. Rudolph is suspected in four bombings between July 1996 and January 1998. He also is reported to belong to the fringe religion, Christian Identity, which is outspokenly opposed to abortion and homosexuality and is vehemently anti-Semitic.

The Christian Identity religion stresses that northern Europeans are the “true” Israelites and that all other races are “mud people.” They also espouse the idea that the Holocaust never happened.

Rudolph has been in hiding since the end of January 1998 in the Appalachian Mountains, avoiding any and all attempts by federal agents to bring him in. In western North Carolina, he has become a mythic figure, featured famously on the “Run Rudolph Run” t-shirts and supported outwardly by some of the region’s fundamentalist conservatives.

When Rudolph was found and arrested by a rookie police officer in Murphy, North Carolina, he was dressed casually, in clean clothes, and was by all accounts presentable and neat. The overwhelming belief in the area is that he has been given support by some of the residents. Signs in front yards profess outward support for the man who has killed two and wounded nearly one hundred and fifty individuals.

Let us recap. Eric Rudolph is a terrorist, a man who detonated explosives and has killed people who did not agree with his personal beliefs. He belongs to a fringe fundamentalist religion that embraces hateful ideals. He has received support from the people who live near him and agree with his “crusade.” He has hidden in the mountains and avoided capture by U.S. government forces.

Does this sound familiar yet? It should.

The only real difference between Eric Robert Rudolph and Arab terrorists is the color of their God. Both sides think that they are justified in taking lives to further their own causes. Both sides’ beliefs are grounded in conservative religions; one Christianity, one Islam. Both sides have been given support by people who agree.

President Bush has pounded the podium and announced to the world that the United States would go after any country that harbored terrorism. By his broad standards, this means that the United States could go after any nation that had individuals who harbored terrorists. Which includes us. The signs in the front yards of Murphy, North Carolina are proof. The statement of the woman in Marble is further proof. The fact that Rudolph has survived five years in hiding – in nice clothing – is plenty. Is it possible that the man bought groceries, gear, and clothing in a region where his face is peppered across t-shirts, and no one noticed? It is possible, but it is not likely.

*Quoted from a Tim Whitmire AP story of 6/1/03.

----------------------------------------------------

Will the 101st Airborne drop into North Carolina? Will the feds find Weapons of Mass Destruction outside of Asheville? E-mail me at: yahoo.com to make your opinion known.

'Rugby Gets in Your Blood'

This was undoubtably the hardest story I ever had to write - and I blame them. You see, the only way they would be interviewed is if I would come join them at a house party and drink with them. Now I am a drinker, so I said I would. But I brought my micro-cassette recorder and three tapes, and the last two tapes were useless. I couldn't tell what I was asking, let alone what any of them were answering. Though, in moments of some lucidity, I could tell we were discussing Iraq, the tax base, Canadian girls, and the NFL. But, as God as my witness, everything in the story had to come off the first tape (and most of that was off the first side of the first tape). These guys say they've never lost a party. They're not lying.

It has been said that soccer is a gentlemen’s game played by hooligans, but that rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen. It is a violent game, fast moving and dangerous, immortalized by the bumper sticker that reads, “Give Blood. Play Rugby.” In Jackson, those gentlemen who participate in the hooligan’s game are known as the Jackson Rugby Football Club.

Though the majority of local sports fans are not even aware that the club exists, the Jackson Rugby FC began in 1974 and has been active since. The club competes nationally with 365 different teams in their division. Currently the team plays their matches at Chastain School, at 4650 Manhattan Road.

Locally, the men of the club number between twenty-five and thirty, depending on who is asked. The fluid numbers are accounted for easily. These are not professional players. These are men that practice twice a week, play games every Saturday, and have to foot their own bills on road trips during the seasons. Some men are not able to make games or practices with any regularity, some are on leaves of absence, and some are limited to only being available at certain times. But most of them are die-hards, adjusting their work and home schedules to allow them to fully participate in rugby and all of its aspects.

Rugby is one of the oldest team sports in existence. Early variants of the game were played several hundred years ago, but its current form has been around since 1823, when William Webb Ellis, a monitor at the Rugby School in the midlands of England, overhauled some of the then-current rules of the game and made it his own. The rules have been changed and modified numerous times in the one hundred and eighty one years since, but the game is substantially the same.

Both American-style football and Australian Rules football sprang from rugby. Many of the terms are used in both sports: forward pass, fullback, halfback, punt, place kick, and offsides are all used. Rugby is played on a 100-meter-long field – the “pitch” – as opposed to a 100-yard long field. Goalposts stand at each end of the pitch and kicking the ball between the forks results in points on the board. Even the post-touchdown extra point in football comes from rugby’s conversion kick.

But unlike football, rugby is a game of constant motion and speed. During a match, players must play both offense and defense and only minimal substitutions are allowed. Players must be prepared to be on their feet, running and tackling, for most of the game.

The match consists of two forty-minute halves. The clock runs continually, stopping only for injuries. Players are penalized for unnecessarily delaying the game in any way.

This kind of hard play demands a certain level of fitness. These men have it, but these are not the typical athletes. Toughness is more important to a rugby player than physique. As such, potbellies abound, and a six-pack is more likely to refer to cold beer than to abs.

“The majority of guys who are really good athletes aren’t chiseled,” says Blair Lobrano, a prop. “I have a background in Olympic weightlifting. You can be fit and not have the physique of a Greek god. The athletes we see on TV are being marketed, sold to you. They need to look good.” He believes that rugby players need something more important than a chiseled physique.
“It’s a sort of mental and physical toughness. It’s that desire to keep going, because the guy standing next to you is also still going.”

Lock forward Ray Wiltshire, known as “Mouth of the South,” agrees. “Rugby is controlled violence. You can’t be a wallflower, as far as worrying about being hurt. You’re going to get stepped on. You’re going to get scraped, scratched, bruised, and beat up. You have to be tough and a little rough around the edges. I’ve learned to recruit anybody of any size. Look at little Jason over there. He’s tough as woodpecker lips.”

Wiltshire has been playing rugby since 1990, when he graduated from Millsaps College. A four-year football player there, he was brought to rugby by a friend. He says there are many different ways that guys stumble into the rugby scene.

“I happened to walk into the Dutch Bar wearing, unbeknownst to me at the time, a rugby jersey,” says Jason “Booger” Guillot, who plays outside center. “I proceeded to get ragged by the players who were there. They did it hard enough that I finally came out and practiced with them. I started playing in 1999 and never stopped.”

“I met the guys in the Dutch Bar,” says Bradley “Opie” Barnes, a wing forward. When I first met them, I thought, I don’t need to be playing rugby. These guys are entirely too big. But I kind of had a little crush on this girl who said that she knew a bunch of the guys who played. She said she was always there. So I said, ‘I’m going to start playing.’”

To a man, the players all agree that the camaraderie they share is one of the reasons they stay with the club.

“You’re looking at a lot of likeminded, loudmouthed, very opinionated, very strong personalities,” Wiltshire says, which brings laughter from most of his teammates.

“We don’t play because anybody pays us – or whether or not anybody watches us, for that matter,” says Guillot. “We play for the parties after the game, and for the camaraderie. We don’t play for glory. God knows there’s not too much of that. We’ve approached a lot of groups for sponsorships and been turned down. I’m telling you, girls’ soccer teams get more financial support than we do.”

Except from former players. Recently, a group of former (and a few current) players formed OBIG, the Old Boys’ Investment Group. They purchased a piece of land off Medgar Evers Boulevard and are turning it into a rugby playing field.

Club President Mitch Holland, and proud OBIG member, says:

“We’re going to have two rugby pitches there. We’ve leveled the fields and planted the grass. We hope to play on them in September or October this year. In the long term, we need to add a good road and parking. We have a dirt road, but if it rains, you can’t get in at all. In the very long term, we want the two fields to become practice and secondary fields. The premiere field will go in when we have the funds. We plan to have a clubhouse and a video tower, so we can tape our matches.”

OBIG, like the club, is made up primarily of white-collar workers. Several doctors, lawyers, and engineers have regular places on the team.

“Everyone has a degree,” Wiltshire says. “Most of these guys have post-graduate degrees. Well, Opie doesn’t have a degree, since he’s still in college. He’s the baby of the team.”
The social aspect of the club is important to the members. Carlo Bagliane came from Capetown, South Africa, to play baseball for Belhaven College. Bagliane, known as “Bags,” the team’s flyhalf, describes his need for the team.

“I got married. I met my wife. She wouldn’t go back, so I stayed here.” His teammates chant, “Green card! Green card!” while he tells the story.

“I needed some sport to play. There’s no other sport here that’s a club. There’s no soccer in Jackson that’s a club. There’s no baseball in Jackson that’s a club. But there was a rugby club.”
To many of the members, the social aspect is a chance for relaxing and having a few – or several – drinks with friends. The team practices on Tuesday and Thursday during the season and has regular Saturday games. Games invariably end with both teams going to a bar or club together to do a bit of bilateral celebrating. But the celebrating also tends to occur during the week, too.

“To keep in practice,” Bagliane says. Apparently it pays off.

“I can honestly say that we may have lost games, but we’ve never lost a party,” Wiltshire says. “There’s been many places where if we win, the other team gets pissy. They drink a few beers and leave. We’ll kill their keg and drink at their bar until the last guy is ready to leave.”

“Or get kicked out,” Guillot says.

“In Pensacola we did get thrown out,” Wiltshire admits. He says that their combination of hard playing and hard partying brings them an unusual mix of fans.

“We get some fans of extreme sports. We get the oddly curious, the people who just want to see a train wreck out there. But believe it or not, there are a lot of women that rugby appears to attract. I don’t want to toot our horns too much. We’re not the prettiest guys, but a lot of us have very nice looking girlfriends.”

They also have many close friendships.

“The best thing about rugby to me is that the most important person on the field is the man standing next to me,” says teammate John Suyes, who recently returned to the team. Several others nod and agree.

“I’ve been with the club since 1980,” Holland says. “But I got away from it a bit during the 90’s. I’m back now. The guys who are here now remind me of my old teammates. They have that team spirit. They get along well. They remind me of how the team was when I played many years ago.”

“We’re from a smaller municipality,” says James Charbonneau, who plays both lock and wing forward. “So we’re always recruiting new players. We take young, old, whatever. We want people to know we’re here. We’ve been here a long time.”

“We’re just around the corner,” Guillot agrees. “Chastain School is just off the interstate.”

Charbonneau invites those interested in playing to, “Come out and play with us. We’ll train anyone. You didn’t have to play in college or in high school.” But be warned, you might become devoted.

“As long as my body can take it, I’m going to play,” Bagliane states.

“I’m here for the haul,” Barnes says. “As long as I’m able to go, I’m going to play. When I’m not able to go, if I have any money, I’m going to put a little in to support.”

“Rugby gets in your blood,” says Wiltshire. “You will love it.”