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| 09:02pm 21/02/2008 |
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Hell, it's been a day.
Seems like all the cattle (alright, three) just felt like calving at near the same time--whether in solidarity or for some other reason Jack's got no clue, but between four-in-the-morning fights with creatures three times his size and a hell of a lot stronger, feeding the newborns and making sure they get checked out all proper with the vet from town, and listening to the low bellows of the mothers worried that their young might try to get too far too soon makes for some days he won't be all that depressed to see pass.
At least it ain't the season for sheep (not that Shadow's got 'em, anyhow). Goddamn but he hates sheep.
It's times like these he really enjoys an evening cigarette, fence railings cold against his jeans and the biting smoke drawing hot into his mouth and lungs.
'S a pretty night, anyhow. A real nice orange-colored sky. |
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| 12:07pm 13/04/2007 |
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Sallie'd have his head if she caught him napping during chores--
or, anyway, that's what Jack supposes, even if it ain't, strictly, true.
He'd sure like a nap, though. He's been chopping wood for going on half an hour now and his arms are burning, his back is burning, and the sun that had been just warm enough when he'd started out now feels like a blaze along the back of his neck.
Rise, and fall. Chop.
Nothing better to do, no better place to go. And it's quiet: the only sound is that off the axe chopping through wood.
His company isn't much in the way for words, after all. |
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| 12:28am 17/11/2006 |
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It's been...
Well.
Jack's been in and out--mostly out--and going about his business; helping out with the chores here and staying plenty with Sallie on Shadow. Now and again his minds drifts to Kaylee's offer of a bunk on Serenity, and hell if that ain't something he'd sure like. Not the bunk, exactly, just the serenity.
But even cowboys with the blues have got to get their fill of smokes and a drink or two, so Jack Twist sits at the bar with a bottle of beer and an ashtray's got two burnt-out cigarette butts in it already, and another looking like it's going to be joining them in the near future. And if he didn't walk in with quite the same spring to his step as he'd had once upon a time, well...
Sometimes things happen, you can't do much of anything to fix 'em. And you got to just keep on going, because at the very least there's always another smoke and another drink and maybe a friendly face or two around. |
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| 09:37pm 27/09/2006 |
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The clump of his boots is a lot louder in here, and the ceilings a lot lower, and Jack'd feel pretty damn claustrophobic if they weren't only gonna be on the damn thing for a little while.
...Well, hell, he feels sorta that way anyhow. |
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| 10:15pm 20/09/2006 |
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The difference between being on a ship and on the ground is that on a ship, there ain't no room to move. No room to storm around--not unless you want the whole god-damned crew knowing what you're up to. The difference is that there ain't fresh clean air, just this recycled shit that tastes like
(a tire)
iron. The difference is that there ain't any place to go to that's far enough from the one place you ought to be, or near enough to the place you want to be.
But there's space, of a sort, to be found, which is why when Jack finally stops pacing around, he's settled on one of the landings above the cargo area, his hat in his hands.
The brim's all crumpled. |
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| 08:47pm 15/08/2006 |
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Things about Jack Twist:
1. He accumulates stuff. Just things--hats, belts, books (read or otherwise), and other varities of knick-knack. He's the sort of dad who'll keep a newspaper mention of his son, even if it's kept in a box somewhere in a closet. He isn't materialistic, though he does enjoy nice clothes, a good home, and maybe the latest in camping equipment--he's more of a pack rat.
2. On a similar but not entirely related note, Jack never stops talking. If he's silent, he's communicationg something through body language; through touching, smiling, looking away or down, slouching, etc.
3. Following that note, if Jack is silent and unreadable? Something is very off.
4. He will probably be letting you know what that something is without your having to pry too awfully much.
5. He is silent and unreadable a lot around Lureen.
6. Brokeback Mountain is simeltaneously the place he loves most in the world, and the place he will never go back to (until after his death, which is why he insists that his ashes be spread up on Brokeback).
7. His son is the most important person in his life, barring only Ennis.
8. He will never hate anyone or love anyone as much as he hates and loves Ennis.
9. He will never use the word "love" to describe any part of his relationship with Ennis.
10. When he looks at Desire, he doesn't always see dirty blond hair and hazel eyes and a cowboy hat. Mostly he just sees the fact that to Desire, Jack seems to be important and wanted and liked.
11. He will never stop trying to gain his father's affection and respect.
12. He will never get it. |
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| This is my sundown |
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| 08:35pm 10/08/2006 |
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It was black for a long time.
And it's still dark, and the air should be warm, smelling like canvas and sweat and horse and old leather, but instead he's cold, and huddles down, curling into himself to get warm again. Instead of wiry grass against his skin, there's only a firm softness, and he stretches one arm out to pull Lureen
(Ennis)
closer, but there's nothing there and all he grabs hold of is a sheet--not even a blanket or a pillow.
And he has one fuck-all of a headache.
It isn't until he rolls onto his back and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes in the darkness, that he realizes that the stifling air smells sweet, and warm. Like peaches. And
"Shit!" He sits up, abruptly, and immediately regrets it. Waves of nausea washe through him, his head pounding like he'd drank at least an entire bottle of bad whiskey the night before--
But.
But he hadn't been drinking. He'd been--hell, he'd been on the road, and the goddam truck had taken one final sharp rock to the paper-thin tires, and he'd stopped to fix it, and everything kinda got blurry from there. He remembers shapes, black against the bright afternoon sun, and something swinging at him--
clang
(and it burns burns burns)
He touches the bridge of his nose gingerly, and for a long moment his breathing stops.
(that ring of fire)
Fuck. |
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| 10:51am 10/08/2006 |
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And that's all it is.
Just a road, stretching straight as the eye can see
(which is odd, 'cause weren't it winding like a snake trying to shed its skin just a minute ago?)
and the only thing on it is Jack's old broken-down truck, the same old piece-of-shit he'd driven to Signal, the same one what kept trying to quit on him once he got down from Brokeback
(that's if he'd ever gotten down from Brokeback, and if those mountains sitting humped and purple in the distance are any clue, he never truly did)
and he's just sitting on the hood, sweating and grease-stained and just about ready to give up on the damned thing.
"Shit," he says, softly, to himself, and squints into the sun.
He hates changing flats. |
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| 01:18pm 31/05/2006 |
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They set upon him in the fall of the day, when the sun is slanting down the western arc of the sky, burning blue and hot above. There's a hit to the back of his head, a leg between his and a push at his back and he trips, goes down fighting without having any idea of who or how many or where they are before the tire iron swings down
No. That isn't how it happens.
He's fixing a flat--another goddam flat on this goddam truck, time now to get a new one, he figures, and wipes some sweat off his brow, leaving a smudge of grease just above his eyebrow, and just before the tire blows, he glances up to squint at the sun, and then there's an explosion and the sun is gone and so is everything else.
Is that how it happens?
There's a push that might be hot air or might be hands, and grass rough against his back either way.
He wants to vomit from the kick to his stomach. There's a sharp pain in his head. He tries to hit back. It doesn't seem to make a difference.
He thinks they've maybe broken some ribs. He hopes that's all they've broken.
He doesn't see the swing of an arm, doesn't catch the dull glimmer of hot sun on the tire iron when it falls, only feels something in his face break and shatter and he chokes on the sudden thick gush of blood
(He pushes Ennis up into the wall and four fucking years, it's been, and he can't help but be rough and he can't get close enough, tasting blood on his lips that might be his and might be Ennis' and they wrestle closer)
Either way, there's metal.
There was metal, iron and bone shatter and
clang
goes the tire (iron)
Either way, he (pushed tripped kicked beaten down now) (fell) falls.
kicked and kicking tripped and hitting smashed and blood and
And either way, there's pain. Choking and searing down his throat hot metallic (blood) pain and.
AndI hurt myself today, to see if I still
The sky is so feel
blue.
And then everything is clouded.
In the end, he's left there (they leave him there) alone, sprawled on his back with the hot coppery smell of blood
blood like metal like iron like salt
and metal in the dirt and the grass that's been stirred up by the brief struggle, blood soaking into the dry earth, unconscious.
Nothing merciful about it, though it cuts his bewilderment short.
And in the gathering dark, the moon rises, the curve of a smile.
It's beautiful. And somewhere, there's the sound of wings. |
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| time keeps dragging on |
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| 08:07pm 24/05/2006 |
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Jack measures out the passage of the years in Bobby's birthdays and in trips up north.
The year Bobby turned seven, Jack brought him to a rodeo, watched Bobby watching the riders, saw how small and neat his boy was and worried when he set Bobby on the fencetop to see the bulls pit and fight and stomp, listened with a smile how Bobby talked all the way home, avoided Lureen's eyes at dinner while Bobby told her about the man who hung on to one scrappy bull for the full eight seconds and how he still had the presence of mind to wave his hat at the crowd as he leaped off.
When Bobby was ten, he came home from school with red eyes and a face pale from humiliation and anger, and locked himself in his room, wouldn't come out for dinner, wouldn't come out when his momma cajoled or when his daddy knocked on the door, and hid his head under his pillow from his grandfather's burning comments. Jack stayed up that night, waiting in the darkened kitchen till a small shape slipped down the hallway in stocking feet, intent on gaining the skipped dinner.
Jack didn't ask questions, only poured the boy a glass of milk and gave him the plate that had been saved, sat on the couch with him later while they watched a late-night movie, and ended up watching the cheesy thing by himself with Bobby dozing against his shoulder.
At twelve, Bobby found his daddy's old harmonica, and Jack let him keep it, told Bobby he'd gotten it on a suggestion from a friend in his younger years. "A girl?" Bobby asked, laughing at the thought of his daddy--thirty-six now and far beyond the days of skirt-chasing--knowing a girl, and Jack, smiling crooked at the foggy memory of shy smiles, and long straggling hair, and a sundress like petals, said sure. A little girl he'd once known.
That was a long time ago, time that keeps getting farther and farther away. And now there are still the trips up north, few and far between though they might be.
And now Bobby is fourteen, and he brings his friends back to the house where they watch football games and play video games and Jack stays out of their way, for the most part, except when he drives Bobby to the dances at the high school or when he teases Bobby about the cute sophomore girl who comes over to tutor sometimes, which makes Bobby blush and Lureen smile, a little, and almost without his notice, time keeps dragging on. |
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| 09:28pm 17/05/2006 |
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He feels dirty. Like he hasn't showered for a week, or more.
The man's body is too small, his hair too dark. His skin doesn't taste anything like what Jack wants.
It's quick, and quiet, and money changes hands and Jack hates himself and hates that golden-eyed son of a bitch Desire even more.
It isn't too rough. He can't push this man like he pushes Ennis. Won't let himself be pushed.
The highway is even lonelier on the way back, darkened before him by the lights of Mexico dimming behind him, somewhere behind him at the end of a winding, slippery road.
Ain't like there's much waiting for him up ahead, though, either. |
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| 12:55am 05/05/2006 |
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Seems that fence and that gate get worse ever year, and when Jack finally straightens, his back cracks in protest. One hand on the gate, the other on his hip, he looks out over the empty plains, squinting and sweating, before he swings the gate back and forth, testing.
It creaks a bit, but holds, and despite the heat and the ache in his neck, Jack grins, pleased with himself, takes off the rough work gloves covering his hands and sticks them in his back pocket when he turns around to head back.
The house itself squats, gray and sullen--one more lump out here in the middle a godforsaken nowhere, and the screen door bangs behind him when he heads into the kitchen, hangs his hat up on a nail by the door and gets a glass, runs some cool tap water into it.
Home sweet home. |
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| 09:25am 20/04/2006 |
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The problem with hitting a man with a closed fist is that generally, you hurt yourself just as much as you hurt them, and Jack looks at the blooming purple on his right hand with resignation when he's unbound it, moves the fingers gingerly. Got no ice in the room, so he goes into the bathroom and turns on the cold water, lets it run over the hand.
Shit. As good as he feels, he's the one coulda been punched in the jaw, from everything went on tonight.
Fuckin' Milliways. |
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| 02:28pm 09/04/2006 |
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The problem with working with horses, mostly, is that you end up smelly and sweating and unwilling to go back inside, even though it's more comfortable there. But you get used to the open space, and the work, and somehow going in to sit by the fire just seems stifling. Not to mention people look at you kinda funny when you smell like horse and hay.
Which is a long way of saying that Jack has opted to sit on outside this evening, smoking slowly and taking a few sips from a flask of whiskey that he'd smuggled out of the bar proper, watching the gray clouds roll slowly over the lake and forest. Feels like rain.
Fuckin' damp Scottish weather. |
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| 11:02am 08/04/2006 |
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For all Jack's been here for a while, now, he still ain't what you'd call close to a lot of people. So when he sits down at the Bar to get some coffee before heading out stable-wards and a note and package appear along with the steaming cup, he's more than a bit surprised.
After reading the note, though, he laughs, surprised and touched, and flips through the book that'd been left, with interest.
And that pie sure does smell good.
Takes a minute of rearranging, and then Jack, the coffee, the roster, and the pie all head out towards the stable.
She did say to share, after all. |
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| Meme |
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| 05:48pm 25/03/2006 |
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Go on, ask Jack somethin. Be warned, though, you get him talkin', you're the one's got a listen till he stops. |
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| 11:20pm 20/03/2006 |
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"Shit."
Jack straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at the drawer, frustrated.
"Honey? You seen that gray shirt a mine?"
The tick-tick-tick of the typewriter all but obscures Lureen's reply, but the little Texas voce comes tripping down the hall, cool and sweet and just barely annoyed.
"Last time I seen it it was tossed in the laundry basket."
He'd walked in, dropped the bag, swept Lureen up into a hug and a kiss on the cheek while she'd laughed in surprised delight, before just about running down the hall to Bobby. And when he'd put Bobby to bed, he'd gone into the bedroom, skimmed that damned shirt off and thrown it into the laundry.
That had been almost three weeks ago. Just about as long as he'd been stuck--no, not stuck he wasn't never stuck there, could a left just about any time he'd wanted to, if he'd wanted to--at that goddam bar they said was at the end of the universe.
If he'd wanted to.
"Shit," he says, under his breath. "Guess I lost another harmonica."
No reply, only the ticking of the typewriter, and Jack sits down, sinks slightly into the bed, and rubs at his face.
(If you're goin')
"Shit," he mutters, again.
(go)
There isn't anything all that interesting on the wall of the bedroom, but Jack sits, and looks at it for a long time.
(go)
Turns out, he hadn't wanted to go. Turns out, he'd have happily stayed, bitching around the fireplace, helping out in the stables. It's confining there--too many trees, too many people, no mountains, no rivers.
But there are the horses.
And there's Ennis.
Jack gets up, and goes down the hall, to the closet where Lureen keeps her office supplies, takes out a blank postcard. The message is short, to the point, and he scribbles it, scrawls only "Jack" at the end, before he addresses it:
Friend,
Ennis del Mar, General Delivery,
this letter is long overdue.
Riverton, WY.
He sends it in the morning.
Ain't some things never change. |
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| AU: aftermath |
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| 11:57pm 16/03/2006 |
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Jack stalks a good distance out of the bar, fuming and silent, before he tosses his still burning cigarette viciously to one side and rounds on Ennis angrily.
"And just what in the hell was that, Ennis? Huh?" |
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| 10:13pm 15/03/2006 |
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He hadn't come with all that much, really.
His worn shirt--the one he'd worn when he'd first stepped into this goddam trap of a bar--hangs loose on him and he buttons it up absentmindedly, pushes it into the waist of his jeans, hair wet from the shower he'd taken dampening the collar. The coat he'd begged from Bar lies on the bed, his hat next to it, and Jack takes a moment to run his hand over his face, freshly scrubbed and shaven and lets out a breath when he pushes his palm into his eyes, runs his hand through his hair.
He's glad there isn't a mirror in the room. He isn't certain he could look at himself.
Instead, he sets to folding the jacket neatly, and doesn't glance at the meager pile of possessions next to it. |
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| 11:44am 14/03/2006 |
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It turns out you can get just about anything from Bar.
For a small price.
"I tell you," Jack gripes, dumping an armful of tent and equipment on the ground by the stable door, "I've had a borrow a lot a things in the past, and most always no one wanted to give 'em to me, but tryin' to get a Bar to lend me a tent just 'bout takes the cake for 'strangest thing I ever had a do.' Had a pay up my tab 'fore it'd let me." A pause. "And promise not to lose any a it."
He wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, looks up, pushing the brim of his hat up on his forehead. |
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