C4 antho - Chamber Four
C4 antho - Chamber Four C4 antho - Chamber Four
~168~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology “No. I didn’t see it. Is there a cemetery too?” The old man grins and folds his arms. “Out by the windbreak,” he says. “You can’t haul off a cemetery, can you?” He tells Wyatt how a half-century earlier the congregation had moved the church, built a new one in town, taken away the steeple and the pews and the stained glass. A few of the oldtimers, he says, still tend the graves in the tiny fenced burial ground. “You come in off the freeway?” he asks. “I’m heading home to Scottsbluff,” Wyatt says, assuming his businessman’s voice. He finds it a comfort to speak with someone sober, someone he can understand. He talks about places he’s seen during his travels: abandoned houses, ghost farms 20 miles from the nearest towns, sprawling dirtscratch ranches in the treeless Sandhills grassland, where cattlemen pull winter calves in the hard crystal air, a hundred miles from good medicine. “It fills me with wonder,” he says. “And a place like this, it’s hard to imagine what it must have been like.” The man takes his hands from his pockets and puts a match to a wooden pipe. He sits on the edge of a tire and gestures for Wyatt to join him. He tells a story about farming before the Depression, when some of the rural counties held twice as many families, about squatters on homestead claims struggling through barren winters before hard times drove them off. He pauses and waits for Wyatt to look up. “Looks to me you got your own hard-luck story to tell.” Wyatt remembers his mangled face in the motel mirror and touches his swollen eye. “Yeah, I guess I partied a bit last night.” The cold settles in through the roof as the wind picks up, swinging the door on a rusty hinge. “Thing you gotta remember,” the old man says, “it wasn’t like today. A lot of them pi-
Dragon ~169~ oneers left the cities or the old countries to come out here―on foot, some of ’em―and lived in dugouts in the ground, or in shacks made of stacked prairie sod.” He catches Wyatt in a level gaze and taps the cinders out of his pipe. “Imagine that, son. Live your entire life without leaving your mark, not even a headstone to remember you by.” Wyatt shivers. He entertains a stray thought about offering to fix up the building, but lets it go. He stands and shakes the old man’s hand. “I won’t keep you any longer,” he says. “It was real good talking with you. I hope you keep this old place going.” The man chuckles. “Tell you the truth, I ought to burn the damn thing down. To me it’s just storage, and more trouble than it’s worth,” he says. “It ain’t been a real church in years.” * * * * Back in the truck, Wyatt waits for the heat to build and rubs his hands over the dash. He yearns to be home, to get himself organized again and get back to work. Back on the freeway, he begins an inventory of plans. He’ll make things right. He’ll plant a tree for Dawnell―that’ll come first. After that he’ll start painting, maybe paint the whole place a new color, or a palette of new colors. He imagines doors that he’ll shave, windows that he’ll seal, cabinets he can fit with new handles and hinges. He shifts his hands atop the wheel, rolls his shoulders to loosen up. He passes farm trucks on the rural highway, drivers lifting a gloved hand off the wheel in greeting. The sun breaks through the dull clouds, casting an amber glow on the snow-dusted grasslands. The quiet order of the furrowed fields fills his chest like raw oxygen. He veers south to the
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- Page 133 and 134: The Affliction ___________ by C. Da
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- Page 141 and 142: The Affliction ~141~ would get back
- Page 143 and 144: Bad Cheetah ___________ by Andy Hen
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- Page 151 and 152: Nothings ___________ by Aaron Block
- Page 153 and 154: Nothings ~153~ Lyndon had a little
- Page 155 and 156: Dragon ~155~ Dawnell stands agape,
- Page 157 and 158: Dragon ~157~ “Not this time, budd
- Page 159 and 160: Dragon ~159~ pitched askew by prair
- Page 161 and 162: Dragon ~161~ traffic light and idle
- Page 163 and 164: Dragon ~163~ “It’s Spanish,”
- Page 165 and 166: Dragon ~165~ second one on his nose
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- Page 171 and 172: Dragon ~171~ starling lands in the
- Page 173 and 174: On Castles ~173~ century. I went to
- Page 175 and 176: On Castles ~175~ medical profession
- Page 177 and 178: On Castles ~177~ “No, I’m conce
- Page 179 and 180: On Castles ~179~ People would vote
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- Page 203 and 204: Black Night Ranch ~203~ molded them
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- Page 217 and 218: Helping Hands ~217~ the Internation
Dragon ~169~<br />
oneers left the cities or the old countries to come out<br />
here―on foot, some of ’em―and lived in dugouts in the<br />
ground, or in shacks made of stacked prairie sod.” He<br />
catches Wyatt in a level gaze and taps the cinders out of his<br />
pipe. “Imagine that, son. Live your entire life without leaving<br />
your mark, not even a headstone to remember you by.”<br />
Wyatt shivers. He entertains a stray thought about offering<br />
to fix up the building, but lets it go. He stands and shakes<br />
the old man’s hand. “I won’t keep you any longer,” he says.<br />
“It was real good talking with you. I hope you keep this old<br />
place going.”<br />
The man chuckles. “Tell you the truth, I ought to burn<br />
the damn thing down. To me it’s just storage, and more trouble<br />
than it’s worth,” he says. “It ain’t been a real church in<br />
years.”<br />
* * * *<br />
Back in the truck, Wyatt waits for the heat to build and<br />
rubs his hands over the dash. He yearns to be home, to get<br />
himself organized again and get back to work. Back on the<br />
freeway, he begins an inventory of plans. He’ll make things<br />
right. He’ll plant a tree for Dawnell―that’ll come first. After<br />
that he’ll start painting, maybe paint the whole place a new<br />
color, or a palette of new colors. He imagines doors that he’ll<br />
shave, windows that he’ll seal, cabinets he can fit with new<br />
handles and hinges.<br />
He shifts his hands atop the wheel, rolls his shoulders to<br />
loosen up. He passes farm trucks on the rural highway, drivers<br />
lifting a gloved hand off the wheel in greeting. The sun<br />
breaks through the dull clouds, casting an amber glow on the<br />
snow-dusted grasslands. The quiet order of the furrowed<br />
fields fills his chest like raw oxygen. He veers south to the
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