Savage Blossoms
"With weeping hearts and stoic faces we pushed ever westward, deep into that savage land of death and dogwood blossoms."You know what Latigo Flint hates? Latigo Flint hates waking up in the middle of the night screaming a sentence from a book that has never been written.
Latigo Flint would love to read a book that contained the sentence: "With weeping hearts and stoic faces we pushed ever westward, deep into that savage land of death and dogwood blossoms." Latigo Flint would probably enjoy that book so much that he'd go directly from the last page to the first and read it all over again.
Latigo Flint does hereby command that someone write a book containing the sentence: "With weeping hearts and stoic faces we pushed ever westward, deep into that savage land of death and dogwood blossoms." Please write it now, with all due haste - my mind twitches and shudders when it should be resting.
I would do it myself except I have difficulty writing long-form literature -- I try, but every several pages the protagonists tend to get attacked by some sort of rabid woodland creature.
(And all the male characters start sounding like the same person after a while, and the females trend lesbian.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:36 AM
14 comments
14 Comments:
Latigo Flint readers, let's all do it together. Add a sentence. Let's see if we can get this wagon wheel rolling.
With weeping hearts and stoic faces we pushed ever westward, deep into that savage land of death and dogwood blossoms.
Our caravan had traversed the lonely plains for two months, determined and weary before the onslaught of searing sunlight and cholera.
Next?
Now five men, five of the bravest men I would ever know, trudged beside me leaving the rest buried under shallow graves of clay and granite.
Tag, you're it!
On a distant hill top, Chief Crazy Weasel squinted into the setting sun at five weary figures who had just appeared. The white man had come bringing disease and death to his fair land.
The chief sharpened an arrow on the skull of the last white man to enter the valley and picked his teeth with it while he contemplated his next move.
As we walked ever westward, I told my companions to keep an eye sharply peeled and ogled, for we might be in Indian country. I had seen signs of pox, large and small.
Not ten minutes later, Hidalgo, the eldest and most wizened of those five brave men, suddenly crouched down and urged us to stop with wave of his hand and a whispered "whoah, there, little brothers. I thinks I heard somethin'."
“Stop!” said Hidalgo, “What’s that sound?”
“Everybody look what’s going down”, I said.
And it was true, because, off in the distance…...
"My son..." The feeble pastor accompanying Hildalgo whispered, "...the dogwood!" He gestured with his good arm, in the direction of a lonely stand of trees.
Not ten feet away, a box turtle struggled on its back, foam oozing from its reptilian maw.
Then, without warning, twelve arrows split the silent, sun-filled morning, all seeking purchase in a white man's flesh.
The scent of dogwoods filled the air.
Peg-Leg Richard was the first to fall. He motioned to Hidalgo to come to him, and whispered,
"Hidalgo, I think I'm a boner."
Hidalgo says, "That's GONER, Peg-Leg."
"Right," says Leg. "Win one for the Gipper."
There, in the shadows of the dogwood glen, we fought like the rabid woodland creatures we had faced so often in our travels, frothing and growling. But even the bravest among us feared that this might be our final stand.
I wrote (stole) a song for you, Latigo. It is set to the words and music of "Lonesome Billy" from the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "Guns Don't Argue" (Le Pistole Non Discutono, 1964):
"Lonesome Kid Relish" by J. Jonah Jinxy, Jr
Always lonely, always looking
To get even with the man who did him wrong,
That was Relish,
Kid Relish,
Who was quick to think a scorpion could make him strong.
No one tougher or more daring,
Only he and his scorpions sharing,
The great fight to live and his great love to FIGHT!
A rough man playing with danger,
To whom trouble was no stranger,
Until one day he lay dying,
He had filled his date with destiny.
Never friendly,
Never trusting,
Always kept one ready hand near his scorpion,
That was Relish,
Kid Relish,
The rough man who would rather fling scorpions than run,
The rough man who would rather kill than run.
(fade out with whistles)
The desert tortoise was the last to die.
Damn, I just read this post. Otherwise I might have attempted it.
Damn weekend shifts! Keeps me away from the blog.
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