The Wandering Frank & Mary: Entry II - White Lightning - Part 3
The men raised various rifles in a torrent of clicks. One aimed an earthenware jug at them, his eyes crossed and a little glazed, his beard soaked through, revealing almost no chin to be had. “What’cha doin’ here?” The drunken man hiccuped, his jug shaking. “You with…
Shlappy’sh boysh?” The last half said in a slurred hush.
“Slappy?” Mary muttered in confusion.
“Is that Slappy there?!” He raised his jug threateningly, liquor dribbling onto his pants. Frank raised his arms further into the air than they already were. Less from the drunken man’s motions, and more from the points of his companions’ rifles. A little brown crow watched from the edge of the clearing, its feathers bristling. It was either amused or furious.
“I―”
“Don’t lishen to the liesh!” He hiccuped, burped, and swallowed almost simultaneously. Impressive, baffling, and, frankly, unpleasant to witness.
“Tom!”
The drunken man’s beard quivered, like the drenched fur of a punch-drunk cat. He flinched, nearly losing hold of his jug, sending another splash of clear liquor onto his pants. He hugged it protectively. The stew frothed into the fire, hissing angrily.
“You drunken bastard!” An elderly man appeared from behind the shack, “Enough! They ain’t Slappy’s boys. It’s plain as day.” He examined the men, each withering under his gaze, straw hat crinkling, brow furrowed, “Put yer damn guns away! They look half-starved and like they’ve been chased through a thornbush by the devil!” The men shot from their positions and dashed about the camp, beards on end, except for Tom, who found the inside of his jug, all of a sudden, quite fascinating. John kicked the crate out from under him, “Sober up!”
Tom scampered away like a raccoon with an inner ear infection and its fur on fire. He crashed through a tent and disappeared behind the shack, canvas waving with him.
The elderly man cleared his throat and adjusted his collar, approaching Frank and Mary. “Sorry ‘bout that. Tom’s a good second and a good man, but when he’s drunk, all the screws spill from his nose.” He shook both of their hands vigorously, “I’m John, and you’re?”
“Frank.”
“Mary.”
“Ya got last names?”
“Do you?” Frank’s eyebrow rose.
John eyed him and guffawed, startling them, “Fair enough, son. We’ll get ya some new clothes that’re less…” He tore part of his sleeve, “Holey… and a few bowls’a stew, while we’re at it.” He slapped Frank’s stomach.
“Tha-thank you.” Mary stuttered, putting her hand on Frank’s shoulder, to calm him.
“I don’ like seein’ young folk going hungry.” He scratched his snowy beard, “Though it ain’t free.” He eyed the journal in her arms.
“We’re a bit light on funds, right now.” Mary slipped the journal behind her back.
“I can see that. Hmm, don’t worry, we’re livin’ in hard times, but I gotta different idea for repayment. How’re you two with selling… products?”
Frank swallowed, “…Products?”
“You’ll be great!” He slapped him on the back, “Slappy’s not the worst customer.”
“Who exactly is Slappy?”
“Hmm? Oh, old mobster, bit stout, not a bad businessman. A bit of a temper.”
“Why’s he called Slappy?”
“Hmm. They say he once slapped a man’s eyes and teeth out’a his skull after sellin’ him something he didn’t quite like.”
The Wandering Frank & Mary: Entry II - White Lightning - Part 6
The last vestiges of daylight sunk beneath the grape-black sky, little pinpricks the only things shining through the expanse. Frank snored on the dusty ground, Mary nestled into his side, blowing hair in and out of her face, the journal rested on Frank’s chest, open to a diagram of
some sort of whale.
Wheels rumbled on dusty potholes. Twin beams flashed over the two before coming to a rest on the charred doors of the barn. Mary sat up, rubbing at her eyes. The side of the moonshiners’ rusty, old truck greeted her. Mary nudged Frank awake, his eyes green, groggy pools.
“Get in lovebirds, sorry we took so long, we had a lotta errands.” John grinned sloppily from the driver’s seat, Tom hiccuped in the passenger, his hat covering red cheeks, and his body slouched into a position only alcohol or contortionism would allow. “How’d paying off your debts go?”
Frank stood, helping Mary up. They dusted themselves off, “Fine, I think? They didn’t shoot us.” He schlepped the bag over, passing it through the window.
John’s arm wrenched, “What’s in ‘ere, lead?” He unclasped the bag, peering inside its leather innards. He reached an arm into the maw, stirring the contents. He became still and silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Did they… say anything when paying for the ‘shine?”
They glanced at each other. Mary shrugged and Frank said, “They said it was the ‘usual.’ Why? Is it not enough?” He swallowed.
“This is about five times the amount we’d get for a load that size!” He held up fistfuls of wrapped bills, gesticulating with every word, “You’ve paid off your debt and then some. Hell, you could take this rickety piece of junk and you still wouldn’t owe me anything!” He punched the roof of the cabin, causing Frank and Mary to flinch. “Now, get in! We’ve gotta celebrate!” He dropped the bag into Tom’s lap, pressing out a terribly painful sounding hiccup and a few dry curses, before he settled back into his sleeping position, that was surely bad for his spine.
The truck trundled down the track, back onto the road. “Could we actually take the truck?” Mary called over the road.
“No.”
The fire crackled as jovially as the moonshiners drank. Clear alcohol dribbled through their beards, as they guffawed and made crude jokes, slapping each others backs. Frank and Mary sat huddled together in front of the flames, tin plates resting in their laps, spoons swimming in the shallow red remains of their stew. Tom drunkenly played dominoes with some of the other moonshiners. He was too inebriated to notice that his dots didn’t match or add up to what he thought they were, so he was winning many games without any real reason. Luckily his fellows were just about as drunk. A little brown crow took the opportunity to steal little bits of their stew, its pale eyes glinting against the fire, as it hopped from plate to plate, eating its fill.
John hobbled up to them, giving them both hearty backslaps, nearly knocking them into the fire. “Lighten up, young’uns―hic―this is a celebration!” He leaned in close, his breath could’ve gotten anyone drunk. He pushed a clear bottle into each of their hands, the liquor sloshing. “Drink up!” He sat heavily in front of them, holding out his bottle in an anticipated toast. The fire licked the back of his shirt, eating stray strings.
They exchanged glances before uncorking their bottles, the fumes somehow stronger than John’s breath. Hesitantly, they clinked the bottles against his and watched as the entire volume of the bottle funneled slowly down into his mouth.
Frank took the first sip. It burned his throat and tickled the back of his eyes. He gave the bottle a surprised smile and partook in more of it. Mary glanced between her bottle, Frank, and John, who continued to funnel. She glanced through the liquid, flickering orange in the firelight. Taking a steadying bread, she took a moderately sized sip. It burned down her throat and up her nose, lighting her intestines on fire. Her head felt warm and light, and kind of fuzzy. The camp buckled and swam around her. She felt terribly giddy; everything was hilarious. She fell back off the crate, hiccoughing violently.
John burst into deep guffaws, as Frank went to see if she was alright, “We got ourselves a lightweight!” The whole camp burst into slurred laughter, filling the camp with noise. Mary laughed between hiccoughs. She didn’t know why people were laughing, but she found having no idea to be just as funny.
A crack rang through the forest, cutting through the noise like a knife through cheesecloth. Silence reigned. One of the moonshiners slumped to the ground, a dark circle pooling under him. He crumpled almost in slow motion. They became drunk on shock and confusion, as well on moonshine. Mary giggled and hiccoughed quietly, fear swimming in with her floating giddiness.
“Ge’dow―” Another crack and another fallen moonshiner.
The camp was inundated with cacophony. They leapt for rifles, cover, moonshine, and peered into the woods.
After what felt like centuries of silence, a voice rang out through the clearing, drunken moonshiners sloppily twisted their rifles towards it. “Slappy went blind from your tainted ‘shine y’bastards!” Frank swore it sounded like the egg-shaped man. A bottled arced through the air, a burning cloth hanging from its mouth.
Moonshiners scattered. The still was washed in flames and explosions decimated its shack. The clearing was peppered with hot metal, glass, and ravaged with raining fire. Nearby tents burst into violent flames. Frank hunkered over Mary, little bits of metal and glass pinging off his back, tearing through the navy. He winced. Men clad in dark, expensive looking suits, Stetsons shading their eyes in the firelight, marched into the clearing, tommy guns hefted. Shots from a far off rifle pocked the ground and moonshiners alike.
“―gotta get outa here!” John screamed over the gunfire. He kept low to the ground pulling Frank by the sleeve.
Frank hefted the paralyzed, hiccoughing Mary over his shoulder, following John’s lead toward the empty truck, bullets zipping by, some ripping through the truck’s wooden side, spraying splinters. Both mobsters and moonshiners fell. Some were even in hand to hand combat. John stopped Frank from putting Mary in the truck bed, directing him toward the passenger seat instead.
“I need you to drive son.” He patted him on the shoulder.
“You’re going to be shooting from the back?”
They flinched as a tree burst into flames from a soaring bottle.
“I’m too drunk boy. And I ain’t leaving!”
“What?! You can’t just―”
“Yes I can! You too are too young! Go live!” He shoved Frank into the driver’s seat, “I’m not leaving my brothers behind!”
“Wait―”
Go, damn it!” He aimed a pistol at Frank, gesturing.
He sped down the forest tracks, the truck bouncing and bumping along. Gunfire pinged the back of the truck. He glanced back at the inferno that licked the tree around the clearing. He could see moonshiners falling. He turned back to the path, with halted breath. He glanced at Mary. Somehow, through all of this, she had fallen asleep. Tears clung to the corners of her eyes. The forest burned behind them.
The Wandering Frank & Mary: Entry II - White Lightning - Part 2
Their clothes hung from odd rips all around the fabric, their feet dragged in the undergrowth, kicking up stray, elderly leaves, and broken twigs. Mary clutched the journal to her chest, as the pocket had ripped to the point of unusability a long while ago. Jet-black hair messily
curtained her face, amber-hazel eyes dragging along the ground with her feet. Frank’s messy, blond hair held stubbornly to a stray leaf, beard pointed in odd directions, his grass-green eyes plagued with bags. Which wasn’t that much different than usual, really.
They opted not to speak for most of their time in the forest. Their energy being spent almost solely on ignoring the waves of needles pricking their feet and the predatory grumble of their stomachs. A little brown crow flitted between the trees, its head tilted curiously. Pale eyes glinted orange with the setting Sun.
Frank halted, his eyes becoming more awake than they had been for several miles. He jutted his nose in the air, like a bloodhound searching for rabbits. “Do you smell that?”
Hearty and smokey scents trickled between the trees, towards them. Their mouths watered. Hunger quashed caution and dragged them into a small clearing populated with a little metal shack, rust eating every corner that wasn’t wooden. In place of a door, the wall itself was absent. Inside sat a contraption of pipes, barrels, chimneys, and faucet taps, the other three walls lined with shelves of clay jugs and bottles of clear liquid, taking up every space, including the outside walls. Around the rest of the clearing were canvas tents and hammocks, propped with trees. Barrels, crates, and boards made up the tables and seats, as well as the storage for more of the bottles and jugs, and a few held corn and wheat. The few actual chairs there were, were ratty armchairs, seemingly stolen from their old lives propping up the seats of smoking gentlemen. Though they still clung stubbornly to the reek of tobacco. Frank’s and Mary’s attentions were mostly set on the campfire in the middle of the clearing, where a large kettle sat, lid rattling. Then they noticed, around the fire clustered men, playing cards, smoking, and waiting for stew. Or they had been doing these things, except now they were staring at the two young people who had stumbled out of the forest, dressed in ragged clothes and gawking like startled deer.
Burial In The Sky- Persistence Of Thought- Album Review 8/10 \m/
Burial In The Sky- Persistence Of Thought- Album Review 8/10 \m/
Burial in the Sky Persistence of thought
William Okronglis – vocals, rhythm guitar, bass
James Tomedi – lead guitar, bass, keys, mandolin,
Sam Stewart – Drums
Samus Paulicelli – session drums
Out November 4th 2016
Entry I
This song begins with about a full minute of some really atmospheric sounds, they build up slowly before the band comes in hard at the 1: 09 mark where you have the drums…
As much as they tried, the people could not predict Qortly's path; it remained an unexpected occasion when Qortly would float above their heads, and sometimes they might not even notice. It became ordinary to drop completely what one was doing to get a better look. From what most people could tell, Qortly simply kept its eyes ahead and flew on.
Over time, it became noticeable that Qortly was so gradually descending. What was once a speck overhead now resembled a small squid or a small octopus, depending on the angle at which one watched it. What would happen as Qortly flew lower was a discussion of much interest to adults and children alike.
