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J. R. Parks's Blog – March 2011 Archive (4)
"The Road to Llano Estacado, or A Falcon May Know the Sky"
Treacherous were the crags that wound like ashen serpents into the winding reaches to the Llano Estacado. Chaotic pillars, cut from the rocks by millennia of hellish wind, guided the dusty fellowship onto the staked and stalwart plains. Stretches of immovable boulders were sewn with brittle shale and creaked beneath their mounts, and the roots of scraggly hill-brush and twisted thorn-weeds wrinkled over the earth like the imperfect scales of a sleeping dragon, half-buried beneath windswept…
ContinueAdded by J. R. Parks on March 29, 2011 at 2:11pm — 13 Comments
"Third Night, or The Blink of a Lantern Wakes Even the Dead"
Gary Johnson woke on the third night, or what he perceived to be, experiencing no pain in his abdomen and without worry in his heart. The bleeding had stopped utterly, congealing into discolored lumps beneath his bandages, and no infection plagued his insides despite what had been suggested to him as ‘grim likelihood’ by the wispy voice he heard in the trance of his ether sleep. A single lantern watched him, a tawny, dithering observer peaking warily from behind smoky glass; the light…
ContinueAdded by J. R. Parks on March 23, 2011 at 3:17pm — 3 Comments
"Bridge's Golem"
The Comanche boy was a mute, but knew full well how to serve the quiet gestures of his crouched master. Bridge drank from his piping cup and admired his boy serving the five deserters; he’d offered them food inelegantly from an iron cauldron and the boy was hardly able to lift it. Bridge took to calling the boy: Arcilla, a word for clay in Spanish, for the boy was matted thinly with yellow clay, like some infant golem dressed in a pallid coat collected from the steep limestone of the rising…
ContinueAdded by J. R. Parks on March 11, 2011 at 3:30pm — 6 Comments
"Doctor Treadwell's Parlor"
Doctor Logan Treadwell scrubbed his hands clean of stinging bile in a small wooden bowl he kept in the bedroom. Muddy excrement from the dying man’s bowels had caked beneath the doctor’s fingernails like clay. And the smell of open wounds in the living room turned the doctor’s stomach, despite his familiarity with the injuries of war. The man was named Gary Johnson and he had six lead balls buried in his intestines, bleeding terribly. Treadwell listened to the man’s wife weep over the…
ContinueAdded by J. R. Parks on March 9, 2011 at 1:30pm — 3 Comments
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