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Y’all, I just wanna graduate.

I’ve been kind of overwhelmed but writing just a bit.

This is a work made for class ~1500 words.

Love y’all!


    Long ago, the waveform valleys skirting The Rocky Mountain Range were largely untouched. Along with any traces of its native life, frigid temperatures and winds rocketing from slopes ten thousand feet high blunted the range to smooth, smoky stone as it ascended. This all changed when America’s destiny turned to the West. 

Winters in the Rockies found many stranded, snowed in, and forced to survive devil-sent blizzards within opalescent, gnesite caves before they could hope of escape from the peaks. Besides weather-worn stone, Expansioners traveling westward found nothing but yellowed, hardy grasses and solace from the cutting wind within these toothy mounds; until they didn’t.

In response to the confirmation of several heavy veins in the area that would come to be known as eastern Colorado, the beginnings of a commune began at the foot of one of the highest peaks the range could offer. First created as a trading post and means of resupply before heading further up north, the village of Mont’Swain’s population swelled to thousands when word came that Santa Fe was awash with gold. Nestled in the Rocky Mountains, Mont’Swain was still only a couple of miles from that divine trail West, making it a convenient hub. 

May Lou heaved a cart up the sides of inclined, boulder borne trails leading to the commune with nothing but shrivelled shortcakes and algid river water to slake her appetite. Her only accompaniment were views she had of rivers turned waterfalls amidst quickly receding cliffs, which granted a sparse forestry. All life on the mountainsides spooked and dashed away at her presence, leaving a near gravitational silence upon her shoulders as she pulled.

 Actually, besides the silence and the vorpal winds, a perpetual cooing whispered from a wooden wheeled edifice barely her height, shaded by a stretched layer of bleached animal-skin. May Lou’s year old son, Tomin Lou, slept inside in the cart she pulled. 

The village of Mont’Swain was overhung by a pall of stone flotsam that failed to fade. Barely a dozen foundationed structures remained in a semicircle; none painted, and seemed to bear the bulk of the dying town’s populace. Around each shanty, a handful of once brightly colored, high strung tents rippled like damsels in a twister. There was only one two-story building, white fenced, in the center of the circle.

The entrance to Mont’Swain stood at a ridge above groupings of shabby, ill-set one room abodes. Looking down, May saw little of the small, decrepit looking place due to the haze which polarized her vision to a grey-scale, stealing the greens and blues from the heights. 

On the cliff-faces she passed to enter the center of the village, blued troughs an arm-length deep could be seen fingering their way up the rock, extending like flexing serpents into the tinny smelling mist. These were remnants of past mining operations. 

An unreadable, leaning plank outlined its silhouette into the grey, before which sat a hiccuping man missing what seemed to be half his body. The wounds had long healed to twisted, gut-wrenched stumps at the elbows and knees, and the man side-eyed her as he lay on his good right half, foul-smelling Snifter proffered awkwardly in greeting.

“Oi cunny…” A moment meeting May’s stone glare, “Uhhh. Flip me a penny, dearest.” Gerbalt watched, pupils shrinking as the dame ignored him and turned to continue her way ahead.

Still, she’s a type rarely seen in these parts. A woman, alone!

“Angel, don’t you ignore poor Gerbalt, now. I see it on your face. You’re curious how I lost my left’s, aren’tchya? This drunk is the only ‘quarrior’ to survive the crush of a falling crag!”

“Forgive my curiosity, love, but did you make the journey to humble Mont’Swain all by your lonesome? If so, there is nothing we can offer. Turn Around!” He spoke in loping, gnarled gutterances.

A ring sounded. In a flash, the drunk dropped his drink and caught the penny, all the while, his stump raised the bottle to his wanting lips. 

“Not by myself, say hi to Tomin, Gerbalt. I’m looking for Elonge Franzie. About my height, Fair-skinned? Red birthmark creeps just beyond his collar with a dresshirt.” May Lou’s was a whisper.

A blond haired boy ensnared within water-tight woolens was raised from his makeshift bed of the past fortnight. His displeasure at being shown this fellow’s most unsightly appearance however, was a scrunching flinch of disgust as he attempted to pull himself further, effecting a shift of his in May Lou’s grasp. The motion brought the furs from his chin, revealing a shocking red scar on his neck. May Lou quickly covered him tightly once more, smiling at the drunk.

    Gerbalt’s eyebrows raised, “You know Lord Boss? And A baby! He can’t be more than months old! Go, Shoo! Leave me and show the townspeople, quickly! The Boss Bloke hates children but an infant may bring cheer. Go! He’s somewhere within, ” May Lou masked her surprise with a smile, knowing a bit of Mont’Swain’s recent history. She grinned wider as she entered the village. 

    “Oh the supple skin, those pouted cheeks.” Gerbalt rubbed his eyes then stared ferociously at his bottle of liquor, querying.

Heading further into the mist, towards the center of the cul de sac, May Lou brought up what she’d read in the newspapers of Mont Swain’s recent goings-on. When the rush of ‘97 dried up, Sante Fe was considered well and truly panned out, pushing settlers further westward. However, within the peaks of the Rockies, cliff-faces, meters deep and laid down with quality Marble had been found.

The Spice Company immediately purchased mining rights, and patrolled these lands for natives, believing their load’s to hold untenable wealth. Their service was not forgotten, either, as the presence of such settlements as Mont’Swain formed a wedge against the savage tides of the encroaching Pawee and Okinowe tribes.

But the harsh journey to Mont’Swain required of any long-term exercise in the Rockies an equally long term stay. Thuswise, Expansioners write out years-long contracts to The Company, staying in the mountains as much as the range holds work that pays.

There was no one in the strangely misted Culdesac besides the layabout amputee’s that could be found in almost every ditch. These were men chewed up and spit out by the quarry. Their bodies broken by the work or accidents, they no longer had a chance of survival if they wished to journey away from Mont’Swain alone. Unable to earn income, or leave the Rockies, past contractors quickly became trapped drunkards, curled in the very stone flumes they’d maimed themselves cutting. To May, it seemed they were awaiting burial like interred corpses.

Further ahead crisp, deep-bodied twangs staccatoed in tempo to some beat. May pulled her cart along, pulled herself by some force to the sound. 

“WHOA, WHOA! Lady, you can’t be hea,’” A notably blue collared voice bellowed in her direction after about an hour of beating white-as-snow stone with her pick.

May was surprised it’d taken the crew this long to take notice of her, and her eyes flicked to her cart beyond a so-called falling rock zone. She opened her mouth..

A cracking slap echoed along with a scream from one of the ‘quarriors,’ stealing the aggressive man’s attention back away. 

“My HAND! Fuck Warham, LOOK! It’s all smushed! Oh, you’ve wasted me!”

“Godammit, I’ll make you wish you struck the metal!” A dust-caked man held his dangling, jellied fingers before him with equal parts surprise and rage, then he swiftly withdrew his six-arm and fired at the suffocatingly obese man before him. The blood weeping from his hand stood out more brightly in the marble than any color May had ever seen. From afar, the laughing shout’s of jeering quarriors instigated the conflict.

Somehow the obese man dodged three shot’s at point blank, and responded with a baseball swing of his pick.

A thwap, and the thick metal sickle was buried deep through jelly-hand’s left side; blunt tip exiting an inch from his sternum along with some flesh. Nevertheless, jelly-hand took the blow and remained standing, to fire again.

Finally he slumped to the mortar behind him and choked on blood as his dying glare acknowledged May for what seemed to be the first time. He eyed her confusedly, with great asking.

In response to the homicides, the quarriors gave little reaction but to snigger with contemptuous laughter, and turn back to their work. Metal soon resumed parsing stone, while the man May walked hundreds of miles to find stepped from behind a far off slab as if it was the easiest maneuver his body could ever make, as if he was appearing from within virgin clouds.

She immediately called to the man that should be her husband over a growing cacophony of complaint, “Elonge! You can’t hide from me!” She raged, darting like a bee to the purple garbed “Lord Boss”.

“You asked me to wait, well, I’ve decided not to! I’m done waiting and so is your so-” A soft thunking echoed across the slabs’ 10000 perpendicular surfaces, cutting her short.

Faint recognition of May shocked Elonge, and he rushed to her dust-cloud.

An obscenely long arrow pierced her chest, affixed her face down to the earth.

    Raising her wide-spiralled locks to his chest, Elonge saw her face clearly for the first time.  He was unable to hope against hope any longer, but it seemed hope was all that pushed him on. 

    “Mayflower, oh god! No!” But something like a knife to his heart pushed the next words out, “Why, why are you here?”

    More arrows fell to his sides like rain, snapping on stone and shaking dust from the mountain. War cries echoed like the calling of a Murder.

Elonge saw the word in blood on her lips.

Thanks for the time y’all

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