Jaidon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cridecoeur) wrote2011-06-08 10:45 am
cridecoeur) wrote2011-06-08 10:45 am
Entry tags:
the house of yellow roses; scene one; r
title: the house of yellow roses
prompt: doll for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
originalfic100
rating: r. ish.
word count: 1118
a/n and kind of a warning: the r is for murdering. the ish is for that murder being non-explicit. honestly, i'm not very good at rating things to begin with, so i'm not 100% sure about this one.
What Jamison would always remember was the steeple of the church submerged in the lake and the ghosts of a congregation long passed. When Nathaniel opened the church door with his sister’s thin brass key, they would wander slowly into the house a few a time, passing in and out, sitting in clusters on faded couches beneath the windows where dust caught the light and fell away, chatting with each other as if it were the very Sunday they had died, and they were sitting in their own homes, as if the roses in a vase on the coffee table had been arranged by their own hands, as if they had placed the china in the cabinets themselves, as if they had turned the dial on the grandfather clock that never kept proper time.
He would think of them when he lived in the pales of Burma, when he stood on the gallows in 18th century England, when he was shot from behind in Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, when he crashed a postal plane full of love letters meant for other people, with the intention of dying again. He carried those ghosts with him everywhere, their pill-box hats, stockings, and Sunday best. His story began and ended with ghosts.
Jamison died for the first time in a muddy Mississippi creek. He had been eight years old, and wandered away from the junkyard his Papa owned, all sharp metal and broken glass, following the stream down to a bend where there was a tree just the right height for him to climb, sturdy enough for Jamison but not for the older boys. He thought of the tree as his own, something no one could take from him, not second-hand or broken like all the things he was given by his parents and grandparents and sisters. He would climb up into the tree, settling into the crook between the trunk and gnarly branches, and dream about being a pirate or the captain of a ship, of sailing down the creek and never coming back.
The day he died he was carrying two things with him: the doll that was also his and only his, the one who had a crown that was also the eye-piece of a kaleidoscope, whose belly button lit her up from the inside where beads were hidden among mirrors and made pattern upon pattern upon pattern when Jamison turned her around in his hands. The other was a letter that had come in the mail for him, the only letter anyone had every sent him who wasn’t part of his family, the letter his parents said was just a joke. Inside the envelope there was a sheet of paper that cost too much with curling print that read:
Jamison Kepling, Jr.,
You are cordially invited to the Town beside the Lake, this Friday, July 11th. Please R.S.V.P with the envelope provided, and let us know whom you will be bringing with you.
Sincerely,
Nathaniel Wade
Jamison’s parents had taken away the envelope with the fancy stamp and hand-lettered return address, so he couldn’t send anything back. He’d never been invited to anywhere like that before, not in a letter, except for the card that Missy sent to everyone in their class on her birthday, inviting them to her house for a party. Jamison never got to go, then, either, because he didn’t have nice clothes and Missy lived in a big house up on a hill with actual servants, like his Mama said wasn’t even proper, anymore. So he wanted to send a letter back, but he couldn’t.
When he rounded the bend in the creek to where his tree was, he had the letter in one pocket, and the doll tucked under his elbow, and someone was sitting on the branch he always sat on. He looked almost like one of Missy’s servants, dark-skinned with a heart-shaped face and black hair that was pulled back from his face with a tie, wearing stiff cotton clothes that somebody had probably ironed. Only he couldn’t be one of Missy’s servants because he was wearing a dress, and Missy’s parents never would have let themselves be embarrassed like that.
Jamison frowned up at him when he got closer to the tree. “You’re in my spot,” he said, and the boy looked down at him, over his nose.
“You never said whether you were coming or not,” he said.
“I… what?” Jamison said, and the boy replied, “To the Lake. You never said whether you were coming or not. That’s rude, not replying to a letter. I even gave you an envelope.”
“Mama took it,” Jamison said, “I couldn’t.”
“Well,” the boy said, “I suppose that’s alright, then. Are you coming or aren’t you?”
“I want to,” Jamison said, honestly, “but Mama won’t let me go anywhere.”
“That’s alright,” the boy said. He was peering over Jamison’s shoulder, but when Jamison turned to look there was nobody there and nothing interesting to look at. “You can come now if you want to. Just say yes or no.”
Jamison watched the boy until the boy looked back down at him. “Well,” he said, “Yes or no?” and Jamison knew he shouldn’t be going anywhere his Mama didn’t want him to go, but he never got to go to interesting places, like his big sister, who went to the city, did, and he wanted to.
“Okay.” Jamison said, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Good,” the boy said, “right on time,” and then Jamison heard the sound of others boy coming around the bend a whole group of them, older boys, ones he didn’t like and that didn’t like him. The problem was, he was still carrying his doll, and he was talking to a boy in a dress. And they already didn’t like him and Keith, who was the biggest and oldest and meanest of them had once shot a dog and so he felt really big about himself, and since no one had caught him, he felt even bigger and even meaner.
“Hey, sissy,” Keith said, and Jamison turned around to face him, and that was when Keith grabbed him. (What Jamison didn’t know was how Keith had been saying he could kill somebody if he really wanted to and how he’d get away with it, too, just like he’d gotten away with shooting the dog). Jamison didn’t understand what was happening until his mouth was full of creek water, dirty and drowning, and then he was kicking and thrashing and trying to scream underwater and scared, and he was only eight years old, and then he was dead.
That was the first time.
prompt: doll for
originalfic100rating: r. ish.
word count: 1118
a/n and kind of a warning: the r is for murdering. the ish is for that murder being non-explicit. honestly, i'm not very good at rating things to begin with, so i'm not 100% sure about this one.
What Jamison would always remember was the steeple of the church submerged in the lake and the ghosts of a congregation long passed. When Nathaniel opened the church door with his sister’s thin brass key, they would wander slowly into the house a few a time, passing in and out, sitting in clusters on faded couches beneath the windows where dust caught the light and fell away, chatting with each other as if it were the very Sunday they had died, and they were sitting in their own homes, as if the roses in a vase on the coffee table had been arranged by their own hands, as if they had placed the china in the cabinets themselves, as if they had turned the dial on the grandfather clock that never kept proper time.
He would think of them when he lived in the pales of Burma, when he stood on the gallows in 18th century England, when he was shot from behind in Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, when he crashed a postal plane full of love letters meant for other people, with the intention of dying again. He carried those ghosts with him everywhere, their pill-box hats, stockings, and Sunday best. His story began and ended with ghosts.
Jamison died for the first time in a muddy Mississippi creek. He had been eight years old, and wandered away from the junkyard his Papa owned, all sharp metal and broken glass, following the stream down to a bend where there was a tree just the right height for him to climb, sturdy enough for Jamison but not for the older boys. He thought of the tree as his own, something no one could take from him, not second-hand or broken like all the things he was given by his parents and grandparents and sisters. He would climb up into the tree, settling into the crook between the trunk and gnarly branches, and dream about being a pirate or the captain of a ship, of sailing down the creek and never coming back.
The day he died he was carrying two things with him: the doll that was also his and only his, the one who had a crown that was also the eye-piece of a kaleidoscope, whose belly button lit her up from the inside where beads were hidden among mirrors and made pattern upon pattern upon pattern when Jamison turned her around in his hands. The other was a letter that had come in the mail for him, the only letter anyone had every sent him who wasn’t part of his family, the letter his parents said was just a joke. Inside the envelope there was a sheet of paper that cost too much with curling print that read:
Jamison Kepling, Jr.,
You are cordially invited to the Town beside the Lake, this Friday, July 11th. Please R.S.V.P with the envelope provided, and let us know whom you will be bringing with you.
Sincerely,
Nathaniel Wade
Jamison’s parents had taken away the envelope with the fancy stamp and hand-lettered return address, so he couldn’t send anything back. He’d never been invited to anywhere like that before, not in a letter, except for the card that Missy sent to everyone in their class on her birthday, inviting them to her house for a party. Jamison never got to go, then, either, because he didn’t have nice clothes and Missy lived in a big house up on a hill with actual servants, like his Mama said wasn’t even proper, anymore. So he wanted to send a letter back, but he couldn’t.
When he rounded the bend in the creek to where his tree was, he had the letter in one pocket, and the doll tucked under his elbow, and someone was sitting on the branch he always sat on. He looked almost like one of Missy’s servants, dark-skinned with a heart-shaped face and black hair that was pulled back from his face with a tie, wearing stiff cotton clothes that somebody had probably ironed. Only he couldn’t be one of Missy’s servants because he was wearing a dress, and Missy’s parents never would have let themselves be embarrassed like that.
Jamison frowned up at him when he got closer to the tree. “You’re in my spot,” he said, and the boy looked down at him, over his nose.
“You never said whether you were coming or not,” he said.
“I… what?” Jamison said, and the boy replied, “To the Lake. You never said whether you were coming or not. That’s rude, not replying to a letter. I even gave you an envelope.”
“Mama took it,” Jamison said, “I couldn’t.”
“Well,” the boy said, “I suppose that’s alright, then. Are you coming or aren’t you?”
“I want to,” Jamison said, honestly, “but Mama won’t let me go anywhere.”
“That’s alright,” the boy said. He was peering over Jamison’s shoulder, but when Jamison turned to look there was nobody there and nothing interesting to look at. “You can come now if you want to. Just say yes or no.”
Jamison watched the boy until the boy looked back down at him. “Well,” he said, “Yes or no?” and Jamison knew he shouldn’t be going anywhere his Mama didn’t want him to go, but he never got to go to interesting places, like his big sister, who went to the city, did, and he wanted to.
“Okay.” Jamison said, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Good,” the boy said, “right on time,” and then Jamison heard the sound of others boy coming around the bend a whole group of them, older boys, ones he didn’t like and that didn’t like him. The problem was, he was still carrying his doll, and he was talking to a boy in a dress. And they already didn’t like him and Keith, who was the biggest and oldest and meanest of them had once shot a dog and so he felt really big about himself, and since no one had caught him, he felt even bigger and even meaner.
“Hey, sissy,” Keith said, and Jamison turned around to face him, and that was when Keith grabbed him. (What Jamison didn’t know was how Keith had been saying he could kill somebody if he really wanted to and how he’d get away with it, too, just like he’d gotten away with shooting the dog). Jamison didn’t understand what was happening until his mouth was full of creek water, dirty and drowning, and then he was kicking and thrashing and trying to scream underwater and scared, and he was only eight years old, and then he was dead.
That was the first time.