Post by marshwriter on Jun 17, 2010 7:37:55 GMT -5
Hi,
This is a flash piece I wrote a while back, but know that it still needs some work. I would like to hear other's thoughts and critiques!
Thanks,
Marshwriter
The lamplight threw stark shadows on the dust-streaked whitewash of the bedroom walls. Jonathan Barley – a scrawny five year-old – shut his eyes and screwed his face into a little ball, making sure that no light seeped between his eyelids. He repeated after his mother, his hands clamped under his chin. “Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
Jonathan ran through the deserted streets of the shanty town that had sprung up around the newly discovered gold fields. His lungs burned and a stitch in his side threatened to send him stumbling over his own feet. In front of him loomed the biggest structure in the town besides the mansions of the Gold Lords. The church was nearly two hundred years old and had been built with the money of a rich benefactor who had owned the grounds which were now defiled with the presence of tens of thousands of greedy humans. Where a few pilgrims once camped, the lawns, flowers and herbs were trampled and left wilted and dying between the tents and rickety wood and tin structures of its new neighbors. Behind him, giving chase through the dark alleyways, he could hear shouts of warning and dogs barking at the sudden commotion. A few shots fired in the dark.
“Sanctuary,” he breathed as he pushed the heavy wooden door open and closed it behind him. The semi-darkness inside the church embraced him. He dared not pause, but made his way between the pews. In the stained windows candles burned as they did every night, hoping to turn the hearts of those afflicted with gold fever. The first showed children crowding around the tall frame of a white clad Jesus. Jonathan’s heart ached. O, to be a child again in his home town - to laugh and play and safely sleep in his bed after saying his nightly prayers. How the wanderlust of early youth burned out quickly when he saw the wide world and its shanty towns of filth where men braved deep holes and tunnels in search of stone and metal to pay their way into an Earthly state of bliss. Not that he was any better. He looked at his left hand. It looked older than its twenty five years, the skin on its back like browned leather and his palm calloused from panning and digging.
With world-weary eyes he gazed at the windows depicting the ark on the great waters covering the earth, the Garden of Eden, angels, shepherds and, at last, before him, a hill with three crosses. To his right a lit window showed fishermen hauling nets. The sea had not been good to him. Charlie was the first friend he found after stowing away aboard a ship at the age of twelve.
Jonathan felt his chest restricting, but whether it was because of a lack of air from his panicked running or the tears that spilled uncontrolled down his cheeks, he did not know. He started mumbling a prayer as he willed his feet forward. With his left hand he plucked the felt hat from his head and kneaded it in his palm. “Our Father,” the prayer spilt forth, “Who art in heaven, hallowed ¬be Thy name –“ he stuttered while his mind raced.
It was stuffy in the tavern and he had had a couple of drinks, clanking down newly earned coins as if they would last forever, as if the nugget he had found that morning would be found anew every day. As if his fortune would last forever.
“Come on, Jon,” Charlie slurred. “You have more money now than any man here,” he took another swig and threw his arm out, nearly falling off his chair. “You’re a real – a real – you’re a, what ya call it? A million – you have a million today! Is no’ that enough for you? You have to own the whole d**n town? I lent ya money, you –“
“And I paid it back!” He opened his wallet stuffed with notes. “You want this as well?”
“I deserve half of it!”
Charlie reached for his gun, his hand working far too well for that of a drunken man. He pointed the weapon at Jonathan.
“Forgive us our trespasses…”
Jonathan threw the wad of cash at Charlie, notes spilling over the alcohol stained wood and onto the sawdust covered floor. Charlie cocked his pistol. Jonathan reached to his belt and pointed his own gun at his old friend.
Jonathan fell to his knees before the crosses, his voice lost for the moment. A gun fell from his right hand and he reached up to the flesh wound on his shoulder.
The guns fired. Jonathan felt a blind pain searing into his shoulder as he pulled the trigger. Shouts rang out and then there was silence. And blood. So much blood. And Jonathan ran. To the only place of safety he knew.
Jonathan pressed his hands to his face. “Dear Lord forgive me,” he begged as sobs shook him. “Forgive me.”
This is a flash piece I wrote a while back, but know that it still needs some work. I would like to hear other's thoughts and critiques!
Thanks,
Marshwriter
The lamplight threw stark shadows on the dust-streaked whitewash of the bedroom walls. Jonathan Barley – a scrawny five year-old – shut his eyes and screwed his face into a little ball, making sure that no light seeped between his eyelids. He repeated after his mother, his hands clamped under his chin. “Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
Jonathan ran through the deserted streets of the shanty town that had sprung up around the newly discovered gold fields. His lungs burned and a stitch in his side threatened to send him stumbling over his own feet. In front of him loomed the biggest structure in the town besides the mansions of the Gold Lords. The church was nearly two hundred years old and had been built with the money of a rich benefactor who had owned the grounds which were now defiled with the presence of tens of thousands of greedy humans. Where a few pilgrims once camped, the lawns, flowers and herbs were trampled and left wilted and dying between the tents and rickety wood and tin structures of its new neighbors. Behind him, giving chase through the dark alleyways, he could hear shouts of warning and dogs barking at the sudden commotion. A few shots fired in the dark.
“Sanctuary,” he breathed as he pushed the heavy wooden door open and closed it behind him. The semi-darkness inside the church embraced him. He dared not pause, but made his way between the pews. In the stained windows candles burned as they did every night, hoping to turn the hearts of those afflicted with gold fever. The first showed children crowding around the tall frame of a white clad Jesus. Jonathan’s heart ached. O, to be a child again in his home town - to laugh and play and safely sleep in his bed after saying his nightly prayers. How the wanderlust of early youth burned out quickly when he saw the wide world and its shanty towns of filth where men braved deep holes and tunnels in search of stone and metal to pay their way into an Earthly state of bliss. Not that he was any better. He looked at his left hand. It looked older than its twenty five years, the skin on its back like browned leather and his palm calloused from panning and digging.
With world-weary eyes he gazed at the windows depicting the ark on the great waters covering the earth, the Garden of Eden, angels, shepherds and, at last, before him, a hill with three crosses. To his right a lit window showed fishermen hauling nets. The sea had not been good to him. Charlie was the first friend he found after stowing away aboard a ship at the age of twelve.
Jonathan felt his chest restricting, but whether it was because of a lack of air from his panicked running or the tears that spilled uncontrolled down his cheeks, he did not know. He started mumbling a prayer as he willed his feet forward. With his left hand he plucked the felt hat from his head and kneaded it in his palm. “Our Father,” the prayer spilt forth, “Who art in heaven, hallowed ¬be Thy name –“ he stuttered while his mind raced.
It was stuffy in the tavern and he had had a couple of drinks, clanking down newly earned coins as if they would last forever, as if the nugget he had found that morning would be found anew every day. As if his fortune would last forever.
“Come on, Jon,” Charlie slurred. “You have more money now than any man here,” he took another swig and threw his arm out, nearly falling off his chair. “You’re a real – a real – you’re a, what ya call it? A million – you have a million today! Is no’ that enough for you? You have to own the whole d**n town? I lent ya money, you –“
“And I paid it back!” He opened his wallet stuffed with notes. “You want this as well?”
“I deserve half of it!”
Charlie reached for his gun, his hand working far too well for that of a drunken man. He pointed the weapon at Jonathan.
“Forgive us our trespasses…”
Jonathan threw the wad of cash at Charlie, notes spilling over the alcohol stained wood and onto the sawdust covered floor. Charlie cocked his pistol. Jonathan reached to his belt and pointed his own gun at his old friend.
Jonathan fell to his knees before the crosses, his voice lost for the moment. A gun fell from his right hand and he reached up to the flesh wound on his shoulder.
The guns fired. Jonathan felt a blind pain searing into his shoulder as he pulled the trigger. Shouts rang out and then there was silence. And blood. So much blood. And Jonathan ran. To the only place of safety he knew.
Jonathan pressed his hands to his face. “Dear Lord forgive me,” he begged as sobs shook him. “Forgive me.”
Just my thoughts.