Elly

Brush dusting
Tumbling across once golden plains
Winding train
you wander in vain
Thinking that you know the way to old Denver

She hated how he looked at her

Clouds a fussin'
Mussed up
down at the south edge of the sky
No one could say why
But them clouds made 'em think
made 'em dream
of someplace that weren't dry

She hated how he didn't look at her

Taste the tongue
Delicate one
The fresh savory sweet
Of fresh butchered meat
Father and sons watching from the shallow hills
Wandering train so a tasty treat

She hated and hated and hated
But that fire
that rubbing hot against the back of her throat
Loved
Not loved
Hungered
Perhaps lusted
And in an effort to love
She said hello


The look in his eyes was horrible and fierce, near as terrifying as the pricking tip of the knife he had at her throat.  A drop of her blood slid down the blade.  She trembled, rising up on her toes as he lifted the blade.  His face was not cruel, hard, but not cruel.

"Don't ever speak to me."

The muscles of his arm were taut, chorded about in a lean, graceful way that made her think of the stream that ran past the Orphanage.  Sooth, she was fearful of him.  He was like the mountain cat from deeper in the mountain's, out past Saint Thomas' old cabin.  The look in his eyes wasn't cruel.  But she still wanted to run.  Run and run until she was safe back in her bed.  Safe back behind the walls.  Safe back up in the mountains, where no there were no Lurks, no Fleshers, no cruel.  She stared right at him and tried not to let the point of the knife go in any further.  He looked at her, and for a moment something flashed real quick behind his eyes, then there was no more anger, only fear.  He pulled the knife away and began to reach for her, but pulled away, breathing fast like he was in a panic.

"Go away."

Resisting the urge to wipe at the few drops of blood on her neck, she sat down next to rock where he'd been cleaning his gear and put another few bits of dry brush on the fire.

“Leave me alone!”

He was angry, knife held tightly in his fist.  But that something that had flashed behind his eyes pushed her on.  She looked up at him and smiled before pulling his guns from the rock and laying them out on oilcloth beside her.  He grumbled something under his breath that she was sure Mother wouldn’t approve of, but didn’t stop her.  Her lessons out on the lower slopes with the boys showed true.  Before long she’d cleaned and loaded both guns, wrapping them back up in the oil cloth and setting them back on the rock.  He was just staring at her.  She leaned against the rock and tossed a few small sticks in the fire.  He moved the guns over and sat down.  She looked up at him, catching his eye, and smiled.  He sighed and looked back to the fire, dim light dancing amongst the shadows on his face.

She had to do this.  She had to make him come with her back to the Orphanage.  Mother said that most had dreams that didn’t mean a thing.  But some, some had dreams that never did anything but come true.  And she had no intention of seeing the Orphanage burn for real.


Pappy Johns hadn't had no man-meat for too far long.  The boys was a hungering too.  They'd come a fair piece.  Supper time was half twixt halfsun and sungone.  But if there was man-meat about then supper time was any time.  He ran what was left of his tongue over chewed up lips and mumbled to himself.  Them sivilcized folk would be good eatin.