"What's the news, Ansel?"
Ansel didn't say anything, just stared off into the distance with empty eyes.
"One of those days, huh?" I brushed dust off my ass and slowly bent my knees. "Mind if I join you?" I asked. The mildest of breezes blew through, a couple atoms of air displaced maybe, hardly worthy of being named, but it was enough for me to take it as assent.
I settled my butt into the sand, dust rising in a small cloud. A rattlesnake poured out of Ansel's left nostril, regarded me coolly, and slithered away. "Good morning to you, brother," I said, and pulled a flask from my vest pocket. "Cowboys around here, Ansel, they don't know good liquor." I untwisted the cap and poured some Dalwhinnie, my favorite single malt between Ansel's teeth.
"Ah," he moaned.
"Good stuff, isn't it?"
"Ah," he moaned again. I traced my finger in the trail the rattler had left behind.
"Any news?" I asked, and took a sip myself. As I waited for him to respond, I circulated the scotch over my teeth. Swallowed.
"No," he replied.
"I got a telegram, did I tell you?" I removed the document from shirt pocket, unfolded the well-worn paper, and smoothed it out. "Jack. Stop. What happened. Stop. All was fine and then. Stop. Just stop. Stop. I loved you. Stop. Just. Stop. Stop. Stop."
"Ah," replied Ansel.
"She's not coming, is she?"
The cow skull remained silent, even though the wind had picked up. A dust devil crossed our path.
"Don't be that way, Ansel," I said, and gave him another shot.
"No, Jack," he said, although the wind had died, leaving no wind to blow the cranial instrument. "She's not coming."
You have been waiting for this moment since you reached puberty. Ruth has been at the center of your desires and she is finally offering herself to you. But Lord, it is so hot. Sweat beads on your brow, drips from the tip of your nose into the musty hay on the barn's floor.
There was another day like this nine summers ago. You were made to watch as your father laid lashes across the back of Wilma. "You're old enough to understand our position in the world now, boy," he said to you. You were seven.
The heat that day was intense. Even before the woman's screams echoed in your ears, the oppressive sun swelled your stomach with nausea.
Her blouse was pulled down over her waist, sleeves hanging down over her rough skirts. Her breasts swung as she reeled from the whip's crack. You wondered if you were meant to see this. Wilma acted as your nanny. You were under her care when you scraped your knee; it was how she'd earned the punishment.
Your knee had only oozed a bit, tiny droplets of blood mingled with the dirt and pebbles of the road. Hanging dewlaps of flayed skin hung from Wilma's back, her blood no darker than your own, but more abundant by far.
As your nausea arose, you finally fled the scene and vomited behind the barn. Lying in the dirt, you sobbed as your breakfast left you and the dry heaves took hold.
And then there was coolness on your neck, a wet rag placed carefully. A soft voice, a few years older than your own, said, "Hush now. Hush."
Your stomach's churn eventually passed and you looked gratefully at your caretaker. Ruth. Wilma's daughter. And you fell in love.
Now Ruth is nineteen and you are sixteen. You have chased her and she has held you at bay. You could have forced her without consequence, but you wanted her to love you. Today, as she served you pancakes, she whispered in your ear to meet her in the barn. The chase is over.
You try to focus on her, on her melty brown eyes, to see the poetry you want to write for her reflected there. You stagger again. Even the dust motes from the hay remain still in the sun's force.
Another step and your eyes travel to the wool between her legs. Another step and your legs fail you. You fall to the straw and dirt, overcome.
You awake moaning to a gentle touch. A familiar phrase falls from her lips. "Hush now. Hush." But you are shamed by your weakness and want to inflict hurt.
"How dare you, nigger?" you spit.
Ruth recoils from the verbal whip. Rising, you stagger from the barn and pray that the water in the pump is cold.
Dave Clapper writes prose. He contends that he doesn't "get" poetry, and very rarely writes it. Consequently, most of his poetry sucks and he sticks to prose, flash to be specific. He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two sons. His work has been published in 3AM Magazine, LitPot, Pindeldyboz, and Dead Mule.. He's also a founding member of Criminals From the Neck Up and publishes SmokeLong Quarterly. The most important thing he ever learned about writing was that it's okay to suck--it takes a lot of garbage before writing anything of value.