third exercise in public writing scrimmage
Apr. 1st, 2018 06:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drhoovesSo I've got another scene, which is not in chronological order, but I'll just keep plugging away. I've done a minimum of clean up, as this was was transcribed from long hand in a notebook to electronic format via voice recognition s/w (Dragon). It's pretty accurate, but a few errors are introduced. I've got another scene written out, and will post that next, and I've got to note a few things in a prologue.
*****************************
Scene # 2, Draft # 1
Benson locked the door to the cabin, turned around and strapped on his snowshoes, in the dim morning light. There was no wind, and no sound except for his breathing, creating small clouds of steam in the icy air. He shouldered his backpack over his parka, and started through the woods. The silence kept his nerves on edge, and his eyes constantly darted to and fro, side to side, and even a furtive glance backwards now and then to ensure he wasn't being followed.
After almost an hour, he came across a hard-packed trail created by other humans, an occasional sled or toboggan, and some game animal animals. Benson stopped, catching his wind and decided he could now get along without the snowshoes. While on unstrapping the right shoe, he lost his balance and fell, sliding off the elevated portion of the trail, down a short slope, and into an evergreen. The world turned topsy-turvey, and snow filled his neck and arm openings in his parka. The branches were heavily laden with snow, and Benson was caught in a mini-avalanche of white. Sputtering and cursing under his breath, Benson stood up and brushed himself off. "Could've been worse," he thought, remembering the outcome of a Jack London story read as a kid. But it wasn't that cold today, here in the Kanisku Mountains, which had formally been part of the Idaho Panhandle before the Great Die-Off.
Now it was just a remote section of the Northwest Province, encompassing all the terrain between the Pacific Ocean and the Continental divide and north from the deserts of the mid-continent to the Arctic Ocean.
He trudged along, thinking over the plan for today, and the dangers involved. Another half-hour found him at the edge of town, Bayridge, on the eastern shore of Lake Pend Oreille. Sounds from the town drifted down the trail and became louder as he made his way into town. The smells of wood smoke and breakfast cooking were in the air, and the white crunch of snow on the path gave way to the squishy mud and brown slush of the street.
Benson made his way through the cold muck, heading towards the multi-purpose supply store/hotel/restaurant, a three-story brick building which stood at the corner of Main Street and the town square. Like many small burgs now, the building represented the concentration of scarce resources, energy and activity for the few dozen inhabitants. It also served as the train depot for the bi-weekly freight hauls, which allowed it to boast a slim network connection to the rest of the world.
As Benson entered the Bayridge General store, he felt the gaze of the half-frozen regulars around the wood-burning stove, and the beady eyes of the town clerk, Marge, fell upon him.
"Say Mr. Benson, did you sleep well last night?" queried Marge, in her dry, raspy old-maid voice.
Benson looked up, annoyed at her emphasis on the word sleep, and briefly thought about a retort concerning Marge's appearance and stopping a clock, but simply smiled and replied "Like a rock, honey – how about you?" He added a wink, hoping the locals would get ever more confused, but knew he didn't want to make a scene. He was pretty sure his boss had Marge as one of his many stringers, informing not only the townspeople, but the government workers traveling through as well.
Benson shuffled across the floor and went up the steps to his room, ignoring the snickers and snide remarks behind him. In his younger days, as a resource manager of the newly formed North American alliance, he could've ruined the day of the riff-raffs around the stove, but now pushing 60, he was no longer in the mood for confrontation.
He entered his room, and stood for a few moments wondering who might be listening in on the other side of the microphones which surely bugged the room. Benson was sweaty, and so he took off his parka and wool shirt, hanging them on wooden pegs by the door. He poured some water from a pitcher into the wash basin, took a bar of sludgy soap, and washed his face. The water felt good. The grime on the towel looked good. Today's mission was at hand.
********************
Benson pulled the note he had received yesterday from an inner pocket of the parka. He re-read the directions to the meeting place, the pass phrases, and the list of supplies he was supposed to bring. He carefully packed the small automatic pistol, two boxes of precious ammunition, two transistors for a shortwave radio, and a few other miscellaneous items into a sack, and stored that in his backpack.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, and noted it was time to leave. He put on his parka, opened the door to his room slowly, and peered out into the hallway. Seeing no one, he stepped out, locked the door, and went down the back steps and outside. The day was now bright, though cloudy, and the air had lost its early morning chill, though he could still see his breath. He walked briskly down the street to the end of the block, turning the corner and looked for the meeting place. It was the local laundromat. It was at one end of a shabby, single-story building which stretched for half of the block on the other side of the street. He crossed the muddy track diagonally towards the entrance at the far side.
As he entered the deserted facility, a gust of warm steamy air hit them in the face. The floor was covered with dirty linoleum, peeling in numerous places. Several of the machines, both washers and dryers, had missing doors on the front - they were broken and couldn't be used. A radio in one corner was tuned to a news talk station, the host droning on about the efficiency of the provincial government, and the war in the south.
Benson noticed a counter towards the back of the room, near the middle of the building, a candle burning in a brass holder. A hand-bell was on the counter and he tapped it lightly to see if anyone was around. He noticed some flyers posted up on a board of cork on the wall, one in red and black advertising a "good old-fashioned Christian revival". There was some movement, some scuffling, in the room behind the counter and then footsteps. A young girl, in her teens, appeared. She had short black hair and dark eyes.
"May I help you?" she asked.
"Yeah, I've got some clothes that I'd like to wash."
"Sorry. We're only open for public washing two days a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. We also wash in-house on Wednesdays. You can leave your clothes here, if you'd like us to wash them." Her voice was even, her eyes looking intently at Benson. He figured now or never.
"Really? I heard it from the grapevine that this facility was open on Mondays and Fridays. I'm the regional resource manager. I need some clothes washed today."
"Sorry. Rules are rules. If you want to change the days for washing, take it up with the town council. The generator only runs during the middle of the week."
"Such poppycock." Benson's voice was a half octave higher than normal, now three quarters of the way through the pass phrases.
"Perhaps you'd like to talk with one of the council members, sir?" she suggested. "I'm sure they'd be open to hear your complaint."
"Nah, not right now" Benson tried to add an inflection of dejection in his voice. "I'll just leave my clothes here for now and come back for them later in the week. I'll be here for a few more days."
He swung the bag of dirty clothes up on the counter and pushed it across to the girl. He opened his knapsack, took out the other small bag and pushed it towards her, nodding slightly. She filled out a receipt, and along with another small slip of paper and handed it back to him.
"Thank you sir. Have a nice day" She remained cool, like a rock.
Benson left the laundromat, and stepped outside and back into the bright day. He could feel the sweat, now cooling, running down his forehead and neck. Getting his bearings, he started off on foot to the north,. He had a couple of ranches to visit today, as part of his official visit. But the hard part was over, at least for today.
*****************************
Scene # 2, Draft # 1
Benson locked the door to the cabin, turned around and strapped on his snowshoes, in the dim morning light. There was no wind, and no sound except for his breathing, creating small clouds of steam in the icy air. He shouldered his backpack over his parka, and started through the woods. The silence kept his nerves on edge, and his eyes constantly darted to and fro, side to side, and even a furtive glance backwards now and then to ensure he wasn't being followed.
After almost an hour, he came across a hard-packed trail created by other humans, an occasional sled or toboggan, and some game animal animals. Benson stopped, catching his wind and decided he could now get along without the snowshoes. While on unstrapping the right shoe, he lost his balance and fell, sliding off the elevated portion of the trail, down a short slope, and into an evergreen. The world turned topsy-turvey, and snow filled his neck and arm openings in his parka. The branches were heavily laden with snow, and Benson was caught in a mini-avalanche of white. Sputtering and cursing under his breath, Benson stood up and brushed himself off. "Could've been worse," he thought, remembering the outcome of a Jack London story read as a kid. But it wasn't that cold today, here in the Kanisku Mountains, which had formally been part of the Idaho Panhandle before the Great Die-Off.
Now it was just a remote section of the Northwest Province, encompassing all the terrain between the Pacific Ocean and the Continental divide and north from the deserts of the mid-continent to the Arctic Ocean.
He trudged along, thinking over the plan for today, and the dangers involved. Another half-hour found him at the edge of town, Bayridge, on the eastern shore of Lake Pend Oreille. Sounds from the town drifted down the trail and became louder as he made his way into town. The smells of wood smoke and breakfast cooking were in the air, and the white crunch of snow on the path gave way to the squishy mud and brown slush of the street.
Benson made his way through the cold muck, heading towards the multi-purpose supply store/hotel/restaurant, a three-story brick building which stood at the corner of Main Street and the town square. Like many small burgs now, the building represented the concentration of scarce resources, energy and activity for the few dozen inhabitants. It also served as the train depot for the bi-weekly freight hauls, which allowed it to boast a slim network connection to the rest of the world.
As Benson entered the Bayridge General store, he felt the gaze of the half-frozen regulars around the wood-burning stove, and the beady eyes of the town clerk, Marge, fell upon him.
"Say Mr. Benson, did you sleep well last night?" queried Marge, in her dry, raspy old-maid voice.
Benson looked up, annoyed at her emphasis on the word sleep, and briefly thought about a retort concerning Marge's appearance and stopping a clock, but simply smiled and replied "Like a rock, honey – how about you?" He added a wink, hoping the locals would get ever more confused, but knew he didn't want to make a scene. He was pretty sure his boss had Marge as one of his many stringers, informing not only the townspeople, but the government workers traveling through as well.
Benson shuffled across the floor and went up the steps to his room, ignoring the snickers and snide remarks behind him. In his younger days, as a resource manager of the newly formed North American alliance, he could've ruined the day of the riff-raffs around the stove, but now pushing 60, he was no longer in the mood for confrontation.
He entered his room, and stood for a few moments wondering who might be listening in on the other side of the microphones which surely bugged the room. Benson was sweaty, and so he took off his parka and wool shirt, hanging them on wooden pegs by the door. He poured some water from a pitcher into the wash basin, took a bar of sludgy soap, and washed his face. The water felt good. The grime on the towel looked good. Today's mission was at hand.
********************
Benson pulled the note he had received yesterday from an inner pocket of the parka. He re-read the directions to the meeting place, the pass phrases, and the list of supplies he was supposed to bring. He carefully packed the small automatic pistol, two boxes of precious ammunition, two transistors for a shortwave radio, and a few other miscellaneous items into a sack, and stored that in his backpack.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, and noted it was time to leave. He put on his parka, opened the door to his room slowly, and peered out into the hallway. Seeing no one, he stepped out, locked the door, and went down the back steps and outside. The day was now bright, though cloudy, and the air had lost its early morning chill, though he could still see his breath. He walked briskly down the street to the end of the block, turning the corner and looked for the meeting place. It was the local laundromat. It was at one end of a shabby, single-story building which stretched for half of the block on the other side of the street. He crossed the muddy track diagonally towards the entrance at the far side.
As he entered the deserted facility, a gust of warm steamy air hit them in the face. The floor was covered with dirty linoleum, peeling in numerous places. Several of the machines, both washers and dryers, had missing doors on the front - they were broken and couldn't be used. A radio in one corner was tuned to a news talk station, the host droning on about the efficiency of the provincial government, and the war in the south.
Benson noticed a counter towards the back of the room, near the middle of the building, a candle burning in a brass holder. A hand-bell was on the counter and he tapped it lightly to see if anyone was around. He noticed some flyers posted up on a board of cork on the wall, one in red and black advertising a "good old-fashioned Christian revival". There was some movement, some scuffling, in the room behind the counter and then footsteps. A young girl, in her teens, appeared. She had short black hair and dark eyes.
"May I help you?" she asked.
"Yeah, I've got some clothes that I'd like to wash."
"Sorry. We're only open for public washing two days a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. We also wash in-house on Wednesdays. You can leave your clothes here, if you'd like us to wash them." Her voice was even, her eyes looking intently at Benson. He figured now or never.
"Really? I heard it from the grapevine that this facility was open on Mondays and Fridays. I'm the regional resource manager. I need some clothes washed today."
"Sorry. Rules are rules. If you want to change the days for washing, take it up with the town council. The generator only runs during the middle of the week."
"Such poppycock." Benson's voice was a half octave higher than normal, now three quarters of the way through the pass phrases.
"Perhaps you'd like to talk with one of the council members, sir?" she suggested. "I'm sure they'd be open to hear your complaint."
"Nah, not right now" Benson tried to add an inflection of dejection in his voice. "I'll just leave my clothes here for now and come back for them later in the week. I'll be here for a few more days."
He swung the bag of dirty clothes up on the counter and pushed it across to the girl. He opened his knapsack, took out the other small bag and pushed it towards her, nodding slightly. She filled out a receipt, and along with another small slip of paper and handed it back to him.
"Thank you sir. Have a nice day" She remained cool, like a rock.
Benson left the laundromat, and stepped outside and back into the bright day. He could feel the sweat, now cooling, running down his forehead and neck. Getting his bearings, he started off on foot to the north,. He had a couple of ranches to visit today, as part of his official visit. But the hard part was over, at least for today.