I am the Only Son

[ThePandaDirector]

Iron Quill Beta (forgot that in the title =P)

Ok so it's another quick job from me this time round unfortunately. Wanted to do this idea justice, but didn't have time. Still need to work on showing, not telling. Hopefully I can get some feedback before I go to bed.

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Three riders thundered across the horizon. The dying sun silhouetted their purpose from the desperate vultures and lone tumbleweed.

Three mustangs dominated the defeated earth, their hooves forging a divine path of dust and dead grass. The spent wind had only a ghostly whisper to counter the beat of their advance.

A sudden gust attempted the breath of life to a land that had given all it could yield. Carried by the wind of fate, the three horsemen brought only the end.



A boy stood on the edge of his porch.

From this same vantage had he stood witness. Cattle, carts and machines parade before the house's sovereigns; men, women and youth raise the tools of prospect and sing of sleepless nights. The wind sends unto their humble ambitions songs of free birds and restless engines; a gentle caress to the pulse of a borrowed paradise.

The short-lived breeze dissipated and a fringe of straw hair fell on eyes that had born witness. The parade ended and became a pilgrimage bearing East; tools had been cast back to wherever prospect had been lost to the wind, and songs silenced by the long night and the gale. Now not even the carrion was free, engines all but rust and paradise a heavy debt to pay.

In the distance three riders approached, hastily trying to beat the dusk. For a moment the boy thought to run, to exchange peace for courage and ride his horse till he felt no remorse.

The sound of the thunder escalated, but his feet remained on the edge of all he had ever known.

After a moment, when all that still owned breath held it, the hooves ceased their brutal melody and the thunder was appeased.

The boy stood on the edge of his porch, and beyond the riders bore witness.

Like a restless train the horses inhaled and exhaled what little air was left to them. The first was famine, its lean frame stretching a sickly grey canvas of unsatisfied promises. Then there was pestilence, a swollen body that weighed down on scarred legs like a bloated conscience. Lastly, one only had to look into its eyes to know it was death, its apparent strength of pedigree and grooming a shield that failed to deflect the truth in its eyes. Each horse was a visage of the impending thunder, and each rider a mirror to his mount. Suddenly, death, the man, spoke.

"Elijah Dawson?"

"No sir" Replied the boy.

"Are you not Elijah Dawson?"

"Benjamin Dawson, sir, I'm my daddy's boy." Death gave an impatient sigh and retrieved a leather bound tome from one of many satchels.
"Where's your old man kid? We got important business with him." Pestilence inquired, with stubby fingers stroking a holstered shotgun.

"My Pa's gone misters, packed up with the rest of 'em... only he headed South." The boy felt sheepish under the predatorily gaze of the horses and their masters. Death seemed distressed by the news and slammed the tome shut and replaced it in the satchel.

"Then pray tell me, who owns the lease on this property?" He asked exasperated.

"I do Mister."

"You mean you're living out here alone wee man?" Famine asked as if concerned for a distant relative.

"Yes sir." The boy stated, with the kind of plain spoken politeness that is bred by God fearing parents, before adding sternly, "I do just fine."

"It is not an issue of how well you do, boy." Death exclaimed. "We are in the middle of a legal matter that you are now implemented in."

"Can we come in and talk about it lad? I know our horses could do with some water at the least." Famine negotiated while his horse wheezed at the prospect of another broken promise.

"We can confiscate any booze the old man left behind, not like the kid will need them." Pestilence conspired loudly.

Famine gave his companion a quick shot before smiling at the boy. "Don't mind him, can we come in? We won't disturb your lovely home lad, I promise. Can we come in then?" The boy lowered his head to shield it from Death's gaze and nodded submissively. Famine smiled reassuringly before giving the other riders the cue to dismount.

Death straitened his suit jacket and adjusted small wire framed glasses before grabbing one of the satchels and a briefcase. Pestilence patted down his duster and scratched his bare belly, drawing the shotgun from its holster and barging past the boy to invade his home. Famine removed leather gloves and placed a falsely reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, his other hand concealing the revolver under his duster.

"Come on lad, inside now." The two followed Death.

This house was a simple house, but a home nevertheless. A minimalistic white interior - pine chairs, tables and cupboards, a dead gas fire and a few scattered and worn dolls - that may have once been too cramped for a whole family; now a small kingdom for a lonely prince.

As the boy entered the living room, Famine brushed by him and at once he saw Mr Morris, the local tradesman, step into the kitchen to inform his mother that the windows were fixed. He'd be rewarded with her special stew and as he left he'd covertly pass Ben a fresh oatmeal biscuit he'd nicked from his ma. Mr Morris was no longer the local tradesman, and was certainly never to taste Mrs Dawson's special stew ever again...

"Mr Dawson please, we must proceed." Death said coldly from behind disapproving spectacles. Ben glared at Pestilence as he walked through the rooms in search of loot.

"Where's the booze, I need refreshment from my long journey." Pestilence swaggered as he freely searched cupboards and upheaved matrimonial clothes that had never been disturbed. Ben tightened his fists, and scowled at Famine who looked as if guilt was a garnish he was all too familiar with.

"Just... tell him lad." He advised. Ben looked at his feet, still placed firmly on the ground, and then called out.

"Floorboard under the kitchen table!"

"Where!"

"Under the kitchen table-" There was a jeer indicating the loot had been found. Death dropped a heavy book on the table, which acquired the attention he seeked from all but one.

"I really have no interest in staying in this ghost town any longer than I absolutely have to." Ben withdrew into himself again and met the eyes of death with eyes of growing conflict. "To put it in words you might understand, this is not your land." Ben protested. "It is not your land! This land is the property of the Guild Treasury and was leased to a... Mr Amos Dawson which passed on after his death to your father, Elijah Dawson, and now, so it would seem, to you. This land was meant for cultivation and its tenants the employees of the Treasury. The dust storm of last year was a most regrettable turn of events and now the land is as good as dead, to both the Treasury and to the tenants, all who have now passed onto greener pastures. That is, all but you, Mr Dawson."

Pestilence called out. "What the suit is saying, you gotta scram! This ain't your home no more!" There were more sounds of disturbances. Famine walked to a window and looked out to the next house.

"I see the Joads have left." He turned and lowered himself to Ben's level. "I understand it's tough. You know my father was a tenant farmer round these parts too, and he had to give it up just like the Joads did and just like you have to now. But what life is there here, huh? If you leave you can follow in my grandpapa's footsteps, he travelled to Malifaux and got work with the Guild. I might not be fulfilling my Pa's wishes, but I'm doing my grandpapa proud. That's the funny thing about ancestry. So this might seem like your whole world, but there's a whole new world out there for a young man like yourself to explore."

"Mr Hayes is right. This town's dead, there are no prospects or future to be had. Don't make it hard for yourself, go quietly and the Guild can help you." Death said, his words hinting at a more divine judgement within his power, to grant either salvation or damnation.

Ben heard Pestilence hum a melody and thought of his father humming such a tune to him as they cleaned up after work, the hymn echoed in the living room by a mother and wife for whom blankets and songs gave no material comfort.

Ben walked past famine, and his false promises.

Maternal protection was dead and with it the winds came, the winds of fate that blew through the town and cast its singers into the long night.

He walked past pestilence, and cleared his conscience.

The town was empty, the people had gone, then so too did a father leave his son, left him to stand on the edge of his porch to bear witness to a new world. That world may have changed, but the ground under his now purposeful feet had not.

He walked past death, and accepted the consequences.

The thunder was rising, the night now casting shadows on the land like the ghosts of dreams, but as a boy had armed himself with dreams of familiar spaces, that same boy now moved through those spaces, into his father's father's room, to the bottom drawer...

A young man picked up his gun.

[ukrocky]

Really enjoyed that, even if you did leave out 1 of the ingredients ;) Great read though!

[Paddywhack]

Nice read. I almost missed it since the title was off. Glad I didn't

There were a couple of word choices that threw me a bit and I'm not 100% clear on the ending, but I liked the concept, dialog and general mood of the piece. Thanks!

[ThePandaDirector]

Dammit, Death was supposed to say the line after Famine's block of dialogue. That's what happens with one evening of writing and no edits ;)

Glad people enjoyed it, there's a lot of bare description and use of metaphors, as opposed to more visual content, but I think it works ok in such a small format. I'm also tempted to continue the journey of Benjamin Dawson =]

[Sliver Chocobo]

Interesting, was the little boy the dreamer?

[ThePandaDirector]

No, he's not the Dreamer, just a "boy" =]

This story was inspired by the song below and influenced by The Proposition and Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. The song actually acts as an epilogue to this story, and suggests what the future might hold for Mr Dawson.

[El Indio]

There's a lot to like about this one. At its core, it's a tight little scene. I appreciate the fact that this was not an extended flashback or an in-scene narrative, like some of the other entries; for the most part, it takes place in the present, which is perhaps a little harder to do.

I got a nice spaghetti western feel, with the boy standing out on his porch and the three riders coming up. It had a taste of Frank's arrival from Once Upon A Time In The West. Of the four characters, I actually identified with Famine the most -- with his hints of remorse and his plain talk, he was the most human of the bunch. Pestilence was the sketchiest; I never got a very good feel of him beyond the fact that he was greedy and rude. I also thought there were some lovely turns of phrase -- " now a small kingdom for a lonely prince" was a particular standout for me.

Mechanically, there were a lot of dropped commas that made some of the sentences, particularly the dialogue, come across as rushed. Stylistically, I do think the description was a tad baroque for something this short. Not to say that simplicity is always good, but too many metaphors and not enough concrete description, using the five senses, can lead to a fuzzy scene in the reader's head.

The dialogue attribution was also a little too strenuous at parts -- there was a lot of negotiating, conspiring, advising. For the most part, a good line of dialogue doesn't need such overly precise verbiage, but you can instead add elements to the surrounding description to give it more resonance. Take this line, for example:

"We can confiscate any booze the old man left behind, not like the kid will need them." Pestilence conspired loudly.

We know from context that Pestilence is already being shifty. But change it to something like this:

Pestilence didn't even bother to lower his voice. "We can confiscate any booze the old man left behind, not like the kid will need them."

Now Pestilence is not only being shifty, but arrogant and contemptuous. He has also neatly avoided an -ly adverb. ;)

Overall, though, this is a good piece, especially with such a short turnaround time. Congrats on knocking it out in such a tight window, and I wouldn't mind seeing more of Ben and the others.