Chapter 4 – The Municipal Judge
The municipal building was on the eastern edge of town, and it took them about five minutes to arrive there. It stood a little back from the road, an unimpressive two-story building made of red brick. The building held not only the municipal court but also the mayor’s office, the police department, and the jail. A small barber shop rented space from the city in one corner of the first floor.
As the cart pulled up to the front of the building, Williams saw a familiar face walking up to the entrance. It was his friend, Judge Paul McDaniel. McDaniel had served as the town’s only judge for the past twenty years, turning down promotions in order to remain in his ancestral home on the edge of the town limits. His reputation for being fair yet strict gave him favor with most people throughout the surrounding region.
“Paul,” Williams called to the man.
“Bill!” McDaniel exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you in town again so soon. Weren’t you just here yesterday at Gurdy’s General Store?”
“I was, but I’ve got an important matter that I’m working on. I could use your held on it, actually.”
McDaniel waved one of his large hands in a gesture of invitation. “Sure, Bill,” he said, “I’ll be glad to do what I can. Come on in to my office.”
Tying the horse up at a nearby post, Williams and Alejandro made their way to McDaniel’s office. By the time they had arrived, McDaniel had hung up his coat and hat and had sat down to review his caseload for the day.
“Now, what can I do for you, Bill?” he asked.
Williams launched into Alejandro’s entire story from the moment Alejandro had left Cuba until their recent encounter with Mr. Johnson at the slave market. “Other than trying to get us to bribe him, he wasn’t terribly helpful. He refused to allow us to see the records and told us he wouldn’t let us find anything out without a court order.”
“Johnson is a crooked man,” McDaniel said, “but he is crafty. He knows the law, its limitations, and how to work it to his advantage. Unfortunately, Bill, he’s right. He has no obligation to share his records with you, although a lot of men would’ve done so anyway without all the hassle.”
“Can you give us a court order to see those records?” Williams asked.
McDaniel shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. The law is clear. Those who sell themselves into indentured servitude have no rights under the law, except in cases of owner abuse. That’s difficult to prove, too. So, there’s not much I can do. Unless you can convince Johnson to show you the information, you’ll have to try something else.”
Alejandro had been listening to the conversation with concern, understanding none of the words but understanding the tone of McDaniel perfectly. “Is there nothing he can do to help us?” he asked Williams in Spanish.
“No, there isn’t,” Williams replied.
“Surely there is something!” Alejandro exclaimed emotionally. “We cannot let Maria and Emilia stay out there. Do something, Señor, anything; I do not care, even if it means breaking the law. I want to see my wife and daughter again!”
“Calm down, Alejandro,” Williams said reassuringly. “There still might be something that we can do, but I need time to think.”
Alejandro said nothing more, but sat back in his chair, lost in a mixture of despair and thought.
McDaniel spoke in the subsequent silence. “Is he going to be okay, Bill?”
“I think so, Paul, but I’m not sure.”
“I can’t imagine the pain he’s going through.”
“No one can. Each person handles loss a little differently.” After a thoughtful pause, Williams added, “Are you sure you can’t help us?”
McDaniel’s face became melancholy. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “I’m not going to undermine the law as if I sit above it and can change it at a whim. That’s how society wound up in this mess in the first place. I’m sorry, Bill, but there’s nothing that I can do.”
“It’s okay, Paul,” Williams said, “I understand. We’ll just have to find some other way.” He rose from his chair. “Thanks for letting us take up some of your time.”
“Anytime, Bill, anytime,” McDaniel responded as Williams turned to leave; Alejandro followed, still pensive.
Suddenly, McDaniel shouted, “Bill, wait!”
Williams was almost out of the door. He spun around so quickly that he nearly collided with Alejandro, who was so lost in his own thoughts that he had not heard the judge’s shout. Side-stepped the mentally-absent Cuban, Williams re-entered the room.
“What is it? Have you thought of something?” he asked.
“No,” McDaniel replied, his voice a little tentative, “it’s something else – this.” He handed Williams the docket. “Look at the third item,” he added.
Williams quickly skimmed down to the third item on the list. As he read it, his face became pale and his hands clenched the paper so tight that his fingers nearly punched through it. “His sentencing is today?” he asked, his voice distant and pained.
“Yes,” McDaniel replied, “I thought you would want to know.”
“I want to speak at the hearing,” Williams said, his face starting to return to its normal color.
“Are you sure, Bill? It hasn’t been that long.”
“It’s been long enough,” Williams answered determinedly, “and I alone know exactly the amount of pain I’ve suffered because of that man’s actions. Besides, don’t I have a right to speak at the sentencing if I wish?”
“Under current law, yes, but are you up to it?”
Williams’ face became grim, a flicker of pain played across his face. “I…I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready, yet. It’s been almost four months since that terrible day, and I’ve been trying to forget it for too long. I need to start facing reality.”
McDaniel thought for a second. “How about this,” he said. “You can come in and watch the proceedings. If you want to speak, just let the district attorney know before the sentencing is over.”
“Okay. What time does the hearing start?”
“Probably about 11:45, but it depends some on how fast the previous cases move.”
“I’ll be there,” Williams said, “if I can figure out what to do with Alejandro. I don’t want him to have to sit through a long proceeding that he won’t understand.”
“He could wait in here,” McDaniel said. “I bet we could find him a Spanish-language newspaper – or something like it – at the market.”
“That sounds good to me,” Williams said, “but let’s make sure that Alejandro is okay with it.”
He explained the situation to Alejandro, who agreed to wait in McDaniel’s office. “It will give me some time to think,” he said. “Maybe I can come up with a good idea for what we can do next.”
With that settled, McDaniel put on his judge’s robe and went to work. Williams and Alejandro left the municipal building and walked down the road to the general store. They searched for several minutes through the various isles, trying to find something that Alejandro could read. Finally, they stumbled across a two-day-old copy of a Cuban newspaper from Havana.
After purchasing the paper, they headed back to the municipal building. Upon arriving, Williams headed straight for the courtroom, while Alejandro started towards the judge’s office. Upon reaching the front door of the office, Alejandro stopped for several seconds, his face frowning in some great internal debate. Slowly, he turned and put the newspaper on a nearby bench. For a brief second, he stood there by the bench, an immobile statue of pensiveness. Then, he quickly started walking towards the front of the building, leaving through the main entrance.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 3, Pt. II
[Sorry for the delay. I was out of town at the Association of Classical and Christian Schools conference in Memphis. I had a great time, by the way. Anyway, here is the rest of Chapter 3. Enjoy!]
Early the next morning, Williams and Alejandro climbed aboard the horse-drawn cart for the twenty minute ride into town. Alejandro was excited, confident that he would soon see his family, while Williams’ stoic face betrayed no emotion.
As they rode into town, Williams told Alejandro some of the history of his family and the estate. His great-grandfather had bought the farm, he explained in Spanish, a hundred years ago, before the Great Collapse and the ensuing chaos. Throughout the hard times, he had held onto the land, but it had not been easy. More than once, war had threatened to engulf the land and destroy it. Even when the post-Collapse government attempted to confiscate all land in the interests of “national security”, his grandfather had refused to allow them to proceed, taking the government to court to stop the annexation of his land. Only part of the land had ever been farmed, the rest remaining open woodlands, per the wishes of his grandfather.
“Why is it called Providence?” Alejandro asked.
“I’m not sure,” Williams replied. “My great-grandfather called it that when he bought it. I don’t know if he had the town in the Northeast in mind or if he was honoring God for providing him the funds to buy it. Maybe he just liked the name.”
The conversation fell silent for several minutes before Williams finally remembered how to ask, “What was your employment in Cuba?”
Alejandro replied, “I was a farmer, and I grew sugar and fruit, especially bananas and oranges. Perhaps you remember hearing about the war that broke out in my country about a year ago between democratic rebels and the communist government. My farm was in the middle of the fighting. I lost most of my crops. Thankfully, enough was left that I could sell it at the market in La Havana and buy passage for my family and myself to the port of Savannah.”
“And when you got to Savannah, the man who brought you here tripled his fare?”
“Yes. He said that because there were three of us, we cost him three times as much to transport. He obviously thought that I had more money than I did. When I told him that I could not pay, he took all three of us to the market in Savannah. There, he arranged for all three of us to be sold in order to pay what we owed him. I asked the market owner not to permit my family and me to be separated. He agreed, and sold the three of us to a fat man with no hair. He brought us here and sold us. I asked him, too, not to separate us, and he said he would not. Of course, he lied. I was sold first, then my wife, and then my daughter.
“I was angry, but what could I do? I could not understand what was going on, and I could not understand the name of the man who bought them. I hope that this man at the market has a record.”
“I’m sure he does, Alejandro,” Williams replied, “but it may take a little effort to get him to tell us who it is. He is not a very honest man.”
“You’re telling me!” Alejandro exclaimed in Spanish.
They arrived at the market in town. The main doors leading into the market area sat wide open. Mr. Johnson, the market owner, left the main doors open in case any debtors came in to sell themselves. Williams and Alejandro entered through the gate and went straight for the main office. Williams knocked on the door.
“Come in!” bellowed a deep male voice. As they entered, Mr. Johnson greeted them, shaking Williams’ hand with a tight grip. He was a short, fat man with no hair and tobacco-stained teeth. “Colonel Williams, I’m surprised to see you here. What can I do for you on this fine day?”
“I’m looking for information on the location of a couple of slaves you sold two days ago,” Williams replied.
“Slaves?” Johnson said with a hint of anger. “Slaves, Colonel? You know that I don’t sell slaves. I provide interested parties with indentured servants, who are to be released as soon as their debts are paid in full. I don’t sell slaves.”
Williams fought the urge to roll his eyes at the doublespeak. “I’m not interested in semantics, Mr. Johnson. I want information on a woman and her daughter who would have been sold here two days ago.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’ release that sort of information to you, Colonel. Such information is kept in the strictest confidence. That’s our policy, and it’s because of that policy that more people come to me for their labor needs than anywhere else in the region. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He looked back down at his paperwork as if to indicate that he had finished discussing the matter.
“Could you give that information to a family member?” Williams asked.
“A family member?” Johnson asked. “Are you telling me that you’re looking for a family member?”
“No, I’m looking for this man’s family.” Williams said, motioning to Alejandro. “They would’ve been sold here on Tuesday to two different men.”
Johnson lit a cigar and stared at Alejandro for a minute. “Didn’t this man offer his services here two days ago?”
Williams nodded. “He did, and I bought those services from Mr. Andrews. I’m trying to help him find his family.”
Johnson suddenly had a shocked look on his face. “Why do you care, Colonel, he’s obviously no relation of yours.”
“He’s a man in need, Mr. Johnson, an alien in a strange land, and I believe it’s a divine law that we’re supposed to help people like this.”
Johnson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I can’t help him. I told you already that all information on sales is held in the strictest confidence. I can’t release that information. Not to you. Not to him. Not to anyone unless he had a court order.” He sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. After a pause, he added slimily, “Of course, I might be willing to make an exception to my policy, but it’s going to cost you.” He fully expected Williams to start offering him money just as everyone else in Williams’ situation had.
Williams said nothing in response but thought for a minute, trying to come up with some line of argument that he could use to convince Johnson to help them. He was not going to give in to Johnson’s requests for bribery; he was not going to stoop down to Johnson’s level. No matter how hard he thought, though, he could not come up with an argument that would convince the man who cared only for himself to help someone else. “Well, then, Mr. Johnson, I guess that I will just have to get that court order,” he finally said.
Johnson laughed to hide his shock. He couldn’t believe that Williams had not tried to bribe him. Who did he think he was, anyway, to break the traditions of modern society? He said, “You honestly think that the courts are going to help you, Colonel? There’s no protection in the law for families who become voluntary servants. You know that. No judge in his right mind is going to give you an order to see those documents.”
“I’m still going to try, Mr. Johnson.”
“Go right ahead, Colonel, but don’t strain yourself too hard. The courts are on my side on this one, and you’re only wasting your time and money on this foolish pursuit. I just can’t understand why you’re taking such an interest in this man’s situation. If that is all, I have important work that I need to return to. Good day!” He returned to his paperwork with such diligence that it was clear he was through with the matter.
Williams motioned to Alejandro that they were leaving. On the way back to the cart, he explained the situation to Alejandro.
“So, he is not going to help us?” Alejandro asked, tears collecting around the edges of his eyes.
“No, Alejandro, he’s not. He doesn’t like slaves, and he doesn’t have any desire to help them. The only way we could get what we want is to have a judge order him to.”
“How would we do that?”
“Well, I know the judge. Our only hope is to go ask him,” Williams said. He left unsaid how slim a hope that it was. He knew that Johnson was right about the law not having any protections. He only hoped that his friend knew of some obscure legal trick that might grant Alejandro access to those records.
He and Alejandro climbed aboard the cart, and set off for the municipal court.
Early the next morning, Williams and Alejandro climbed aboard the horse-drawn cart for the twenty minute ride into town. Alejandro was excited, confident that he would soon see his family, while Williams’ stoic face betrayed no emotion.
As they rode into town, Williams told Alejandro some of the history of his family and the estate. His great-grandfather had bought the farm, he explained in Spanish, a hundred years ago, before the Great Collapse and the ensuing chaos. Throughout the hard times, he had held onto the land, but it had not been easy. More than once, war had threatened to engulf the land and destroy it. Even when the post-Collapse government attempted to confiscate all land in the interests of “national security”, his grandfather had refused to allow them to proceed, taking the government to court to stop the annexation of his land. Only part of the land had ever been farmed, the rest remaining open woodlands, per the wishes of his grandfather.
“Why is it called Providence?” Alejandro asked.
“I’m not sure,” Williams replied. “My great-grandfather called it that when he bought it. I don’t know if he had the town in the Northeast in mind or if he was honoring God for providing him the funds to buy it. Maybe he just liked the name.”
The conversation fell silent for several minutes before Williams finally remembered how to ask, “What was your employment in Cuba?”
Alejandro replied, “I was a farmer, and I grew sugar and fruit, especially bananas and oranges. Perhaps you remember hearing about the war that broke out in my country about a year ago between democratic rebels and the communist government. My farm was in the middle of the fighting. I lost most of my crops. Thankfully, enough was left that I could sell it at the market in La Havana and buy passage for my family and myself to the port of Savannah.”
“And when you got to Savannah, the man who brought you here tripled his fare?”
“Yes. He said that because there were three of us, we cost him three times as much to transport. He obviously thought that I had more money than I did. When I told him that I could not pay, he took all three of us to the market in Savannah. There, he arranged for all three of us to be sold in order to pay what we owed him. I asked the market owner not to permit my family and me to be separated. He agreed, and sold the three of us to a fat man with no hair. He brought us here and sold us. I asked him, too, not to separate us, and he said he would not. Of course, he lied. I was sold first, then my wife, and then my daughter.
“I was angry, but what could I do? I could not understand what was going on, and I could not understand the name of the man who bought them. I hope that this man at the market has a record.”
“I’m sure he does, Alejandro,” Williams replied, “but it may take a little effort to get him to tell us who it is. He is not a very honest man.”
“You’re telling me!” Alejandro exclaimed in Spanish.
They arrived at the market in town. The main doors leading into the market area sat wide open. Mr. Johnson, the market owner, left the main doors open in case any debtors came in to sell themselves. Williams and Alejandro entered through the gate and went straight for the main office. Williams knocked on the door.
“Come in!” bellowed a deep male voice. As they entered, Mr. Johnson greeted them, shaking Williams’ hand with a tight grip. He was a short, fat man with no hair and tobacco-stained teeth. “Colonel Williams, I’m surprised to see you here. What can I do for you on this fine day?”
“I’m looking for information on the location of a couple of slaves you sold two days ago,” Williams replied.
“Slaves?” Johnson said with a hint of anger. “Slaves, Colonel? You know that I don’t sell slaves. I provide interested parties with indentured servants, who are to be released as soon as their debts are paid in full. I don’t sell slaves.”
Williams fought the urge to roll his eyes at the doublespeak. “I’m not interested in semantics, Mr. Johnson. I want information on a woman and her daughter who would have been sold here two days ago.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’ release that sort of information to you, Colonel. Such information is kept in the strictest confidence. That’s our policy, and it’s because of that policy that more people come to me for their labor needs than anywhere else in the region. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He looked back down at his paperwork as if to indicate that he had finished discussing the matter.
“Could you give that information to a family member?” Williams asked.
“A family member?” Johnson asked. “Are you telling me that you’re looking for a family member?”
“No, I’m looking for this man’s family.” Williams said, motioning to Alejandro. “They would’ve been sold here on Tuesday to two different men.”
Johnson lit a cigar and stared at Alejandro for a minute. “Didn’t this man offer his services here two days ago?”
Williams nodded. “He did, and I bought those services from Mr. Andrews. I’m trying to help him find his family.”
Johnson suddenly had a shocked look on his face. “Why do you care, Colonel, he’s obviously no relation of yours.”
“He’s a man in need, Mr. Johnson, an alien in a strange land, and I believe it’s a divine law that we’re supposed to help people like this.”
Johnson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I can’t help him. I told you already that all information on sales is held in the strictest confidence. I can’t release that information. Not to you. Not to him. Not to anyone unless he had a court order.” He sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. After a pause, he added slimily, “Of course, I might be willing to make an exception to my policy, but it’s going to cost you.” He fully expected Williams to start offering him money just as everyone else in Williams’ situation had.
Williams said nothing in response but thought for a minute, trying to come up with some line of argument that he could use to convince Johnson to help them. He was not going to give in to Johnson’s requests for bribery; he was not going to stoop down to Johnson’s level. No matter how hard he thought, though, he could not come up with an argument that would convince the man who cared only for himself to help someone else. “Well, then, Mr. Johnson, I guess that I will just have to get that court order,” he finally said.
Johnson laughed to hide his shock. He couldn’t believe that Williams had not tried to bribe him. Who did he think he was, anyway, to break the traditions of modern society? He said, “You honestly think that the courts are going to help you, Colonel? There’s no protection in the law for families who become voluntary servants. You know that. No judge in his right mind is going to give you an order to see those documents.”
“I’m still going to try, Mr. Johnson.”
“Go right ahead, Colonel, but don’t strain yourself too hard. The courts are on my side on this one, and you’re only wasting your time and money on this foolish pursuit. I just can’t understand why you’re taking such an interest in this man’s situation. If that is all, I have important work that I need to return to. Good day!” He returned to his paperwork with such diligence that it was clear he was through with the matter.
Williams motioned to Alejandro that they were leaving. On the way back to the cart, he explained the situation to Alejandro.
“So, he is not going to help us?” Alejandro asked, tears collecting around the edges of his eyes.
“No, Alejandro, he’s not. He doesn’t like slaves, and he doesn’t have any desire to help them. The only way we could get what we want is to have a judge order him to.”
“How would we do that?”
“Well, I know the judge. Our only hope is to go ask him,” Williams said. He left unsaid how slim a hope that it was. He knew that Johnson was right about the law not having any protections. He only hoped that his friend knew of some obscure legal trick that might grant Alejandro access to those records.
He and Alejandro climbed aboard the cart, and set off for the municipal court.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 3, pt I
Chapter 3 – At the Market
It was a cloudy day, with threatening rain clouds on the southern horizon. Colonel Williams found himself walking alone down the main street, which was mysteriously deserted. The slave market appeared on his left, a large open area accessed through a wide, square gateway made of red brick. As he entered the market, he noticed a large crowd of people. At the far side of the open market, he saw the business office, a well-constructed building made of wood. Next to it sat a shabby, poorly-constructed building that held the slaves who awaited their turn to be sold on market day.
As he walked farther in, he began to hear the sounds of slaves being bought and sold. On the block was a frightened young man who looked to be in his early twenties. He was dressed merely in a ragged pair of short trousers, which was normal procedure for the sale of all male slaves. The market’s operator wanted owners to get a good view of the physique of the “item”.
The nervous-looking young man glanced around to the left and right, apparently in agony at his circumstances. Without a doubt, thought the Colonel, here stood a man who had overburdened himself with debt and now stood in this humiliated state. How sad that he chased too quickly after too much, greedy for temporary happiness! Now, he had nothing, not even his dignity as he stood barely clothed before rough and hostile men. Williams drew closer, and he could hear the market’s operator just beginning to describe the last offering.
“Gentlemen, here we have a young man, twenty-four years old, in good health. Don’t let his appearance fool you; he is a hard worker, although he is probably better suited to the office than to the field. He is well-educated, originally trained in finance, and thorough with his work. Now, what do you say that we begin at $25 million?”
Williams stopped listening as the bidding began. He had heard it too many times. Too often, he himself had been a participant in these auctions, and even though he was not cruel and not crooked as many of the other plantation owners were, he still hated this market.
Just as the bidding wound to a close – the young man wound up selling for $10 million – Williams heard a beautiful female voice speak behind him. “So, sad, isn’t it, dear, to see such potential wasted as the result of unchecked greed.” The voice was sad and frustrated, and yet underneath it there was a hint of joy, coming from a source far deeper than the worries and cares of this life could touch. Williams knew it in an instant. It was Keren! But how? She was dead. What was going on?
Before he could say anything, she spoke again, “Oh! Look out, Bill, he has a gun!” Williams looked up to see the newly-purchased young man now holding a revolver. Where he had gotten it from, Williams had no idea. Before he knew what was happening, the man took aim for the owner of the market. The security guard that stood at the base of the platform jumped up and struggled with the man. The two wrestled, the younger man showing surprising strength, possibly brought on by the insanity which gripped him. The two staggered back and forth across the stage, the guard nearly taking the control at times, the young man nearly breaking free to begin his rampage at others.
Somehow, in the midst of the struggle, the gun wound up facing towards Williams. He could see it clearly in between the four sets of hands that fought for sole possession of it. Suddenly, a loud bang issued from the gun.
Colonel Williams awoke with a start, grabbing his chest to see where he had been hit. Then, he realized that he was in his room at Providence Estate and that the incident with the slave and the gun had happened four months ago. It had seemed so vivid. Keren’s voice had been so real, its melodious tones so dulcet that he could still hear their faint echoes in his head as the adrenaline rush from the nightmare faded. As he rolled over in his bed and tried to get back to sleep, Williams tried to put out of his mind the aftermath of that gunshot. They were terrible to remember, and he was not ready to deal with them, not yet, not even after four months. With great effort of will, he distracted his mind with anything and everything he could think of, from childhood stories to Bible verses. Soon, he fell back into a deep sleep.
It was a cloudy day, with threatening rain clouds on the southern horizon. Colonel Williams found himself walking alone down the main street, which was mysteriously deserted. The slave market appeared on his left, a large open area accessed through a wide, square gateway made of red brick. As he entered the market, he noticed a large crowd of people. At the far side of the open market, he saw the business office, a well-constructed building made of wood. Next to it sat a shabby, poorly-constructed building that held the slaves who awaited their turn to be sold on market day.
As he walked farther in, he began to hear the sounds of slaves being bought and sold. On the block was a frightened young man who looked to be in his early twenties. He was dressed merely in a ragged pair of short trousers, which was normal procedure for the sale of all male slaves. The market’s operator wanted owners to get a good view of the physique of the “item”.
The nervous-looking young man glanced around to the left and right, apparently in agony at his circumstances. Without a doubt, thought the Colonel, here stood a man who had overburdened himself with debt and now stood in this humiliated state. How sad that he chased too quickly after too much, greedy for temporary happiness! Now, he had nothing, not even his dignity as he stood barely clothed before rough and hostile men. Williams drew closer, and he could hear the market’s operator just beginning to describe the last offering.
“Gentlemen, here we have a young man, twenty-four years old, in good health. Don’t let his appearance fool you; he is a hard worker, although he is probably better suited to the office than to the field. He is well-educated, originally trained in finance, and thorough with his work. Now, what do you say that we begin at $25 million?”
Williams stopped listening as the bidding began. He had heard it too many times. Too often, he himself had been a participant in these auctions, and even though he was not cruel and not crooked as many of the other plantation owners were, he still hated this market.
Just as the bidding wound to a close – the young man wound up selling for $10 million – Williams heard a beautiful female voice speak behind him. “So, sad, isn’t it, dear, to see such potential wasted as the result of unchecked greed.” The voice was sad and frustrated, and yet underneath it there was a hint of joy, coming from a source far deeper than the worries and cares of this life could touch. Williams knew it in an instant. It was Keren! But how? She was dead. What was going on?
Before he could say anything, she spoke again, “Oh! Look out, Bill, he has a gun!” Williams looked up to see the newly-purchased young man now holding a revolver. Where he had gotten it from, Williams had no idea. Before he knew what was happening, the man took aim for the owner of the market. The security guard that stood at the base of the platform jumped up and struggled with the man. The two wrestled, the younger man showing surprising strength, possibly brought on by the insanity which gripped him. The two staggered back and forth across the stage, the guard nearly taking the control at times, the young man nearly breaking free to begin his rampage at others.
Somehow, in the midst of the struggle, the gun wound up facing towards Williams. He could see it clearly in between the four sets of hands that fought for sole possession of it. Suddenly, a loud bang issued from the gun.
Colonel Williams awoke with a start, grabbing his chest to see where he had been hit. Then, he realized that he was in his room at Providence Estate and that the incident with the slave and the gun had happened four months ago. It had seemed so vivid. Keren’s voice had been so real, its melodious tones so dulcet that he could still hear their faint echoes in his head as the adrenaline rush from the nightmare faded. As he rolled over in his bed and tried to get back to sleep, Williams tried to put out of his mind the aftermath of that gunshot. They were terrible to remember, and he was not ready to deal with them, not yet, not even after four months. With great effort of will, he distracted his mind with anything and everything he could think of, from childhood stories to Bible verses. Soon, he fell back into a deep sleep.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 2, pt. II
Williams walked back to his cart while Fulton mounted his horse. He grudgingly allowed Alejandro to ride with Williams back to the main house of the estate.
As they approached the house, the slanted sunlight of a spring evening provided a warm beauty to the structure. Like the Colonel’s, it was white, but it was built in a more modern style, three stories tall with no front porch. Smoke rose lazily from the back chimney. Off to its right, numerous poorly-constructed shacks marked the slaves’ quarters. Cotton, bean, and tobacco fields spread in every direction for almost as far as Williams could see. The holdings of Mister Bryce Andrews were vast, far greater than his own, and he knew that Andrews had a reputation for being a cruel, dishonest man. He only hoped that he could buy Alejandro from Andrews for less than twice what Andrews had paid.
As the arrived at the front entrance to the house, they dismounted. With a stern reminder that Alejandro had to stay outside, Fulton entered.
“Wait, here, Alejandro,” Williams said in Spanish, and then he, too, went inside.
The inside of the house was nowhere near as beautiful as the outside. The main hallway was decorated haphazardly, with hunting trophies, weapons, and portraits hanging randomly on the wall. A painting of Andrews’ great-grandfather hung between a firearm and the giant head of buck, perhaps to indicate this was the man’s prize catch. Neither animal nor weapon hung next to Andrews’ portrait, a picture obviously painted many years ago, when Andrews was in his twenties. If any were to hang there, thought Williams, the animal would be a man and the weapon would be a crooked ledger sheet.
Fulton led him down the hall to the second door on the right, a double door of solid oak, stained deep brown. Knocking on the door, he waited for his boss’s acknowledgement before entering.
“What is it, Fulton?” demanded Andrews, a heavyset man with receding hair and thin eyebrows.
“Mister Andrews, sir, I was disciplining one of the new servants we have here on the plantation when Colonel Williams here interrupted me, claiming that the man did not understand. I told him to mind his own business, but he wouldn’t listen. He talked to the man for a minute or so and then insisted that he meet with you for some reason.”
Andrews frowned. “You do realize, Colonel,” he asked in a quiet yet threatening manner, “that I would be within my rights to have you arrested for trespassing and sabotage for your interference in the running of my plantation? I don’t appreciate people interfering in my business anymore than I imagine you like people involving themselves in yours.”
“I realize that full well, Mister Andrews,” Williams responded, undaunted by Andrews’ threatening calm, “but your foreman was beating a man who did not understand what was being asked of him because he speaks no English. This man was separated from his family at the market yesterday, and all he wants is to be reunited with them…”
Andrews interrupted before Williams could continue, “Ah, yes, a sob story.” He rose from his chair, turned his back to Williams and stared out the windows. “Do you realize how many tragedies I have heard in my life, Colonel?” he asked rhetorically, assuming a more formal speaking style. “More than a few, and they mostly are excuses concocted by lazy servants who wish to do as little as possible to get themselves freed from their contract of servitude as quickly as possible. This man’s story, I am sure, is nothing that I have not heard before. I would not take his word so quickly. After all, he did get himself into deep debt. How honest can he be?”
Williams shook his head. “You can disbelieve him if you wish, Mister Andrews, but I believe him. I’ve met many crooked and dishonest people in life, and Alejandro seems forthright to me.”
“So might the fox seem to the hounds, Colonel,” Andrews replied, turning to face Williams. “He could well be a skillful liar.”
“Have you ever talked with him, Mister Andrews? Have you heard his story?”
“I don’t talk with my servants in that way, Colonel. It only weakens my authority and makes me appear soft. Unyielding law and a just hand wielding it, those are the tools that bring about an ordered world, whether on a plantation or in a government.”
“I’m not here to discuss your philosophy of government. I’m here to help Alejandro.”
“Help him?” A puzzled look flashed across Andrews face before narrowing to uncertain suspicion. “How?”
“I intend to help him reunite with his family, which is why I wanted to talk with you.”
“Colonel,” Andrews said, smiling slightly, “If you think I know where his family is, you’re mistaken. I’ve no idea what I can do to help you find them. I bought him from the market owner, Mister Johnson, in town. He was by himself at that point, and if he had any family with him, they were nowhere to be seen.”
“I don’t want information from you on his family, Mister Andrews. I want to buy him from you,” Williams replied.
Andrews thought this over for a second, wrinkling his forehead into many tiny ridges. “Leave us, Fulton,” he ordered his foreman.
“Yes, Mister Andrews,” Fulton replied, exciting quickly and shutting the doors behind him.
“You want to buy this new man of mine, Colonel? Well, it’s not going to be inexpensive. This man indebted himself greatly to arrive here in the United States, and I paid off his debt. In return, he owes me seven years of labor. The only way I could part with him would be for what he will be worth to me as a worker.” He stopped, hoping that mentioning such a staggering figure would daunt Williams.
It didn’t. Andrews did not realize how wealthy Williams was. “How much are we talking, exactly, Mister Andrews?”
“I would say that twenty million dollars should cover it,” Andrews replied, a small, greedy grin filling his face.
Williams fought the urge to laugh. Was that all a slave was worth to Andrews? A few years of a common laborer’s salary? “All right, Andrews, you have a deal,” he said. Pulling out his checkbook, he wrote out the necessary check.
Andrews laughed. “I don’t understand why you’re really so interested in this guy, Williams, but he’s all yours now.” He resumed a serious demeanor. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I have other matters to attend to.”
Williams replied, “Of course, Mister Andrews.” He walked out of the man’s office, heading back out to the front of the house. Alejandro waited there, still sitting in the cart.
“You’re going to come with me, now, Alejandro,” Williams said in Spanish.
A huge smile spread across Alejandro’s face. “Are you going to help me find my family?”
“I will try, Alejandro,” Williams replied, climbing on the cart and starting to drive back to Providence.
The sun cast glorious shades of orange and red across the western horizon as the cart rattled to a stop in front of the carriage house. Roderick met Williams there; he clearly had been waiting for his employer to return with some concern.
“Where have you been, sir?” he asked. “Supper has been ready for a while, and we have been expecting you.”
“I’m sorry, Roderick,” Williams replied, “but I saw Alejandro, here, being mistreated by Bryce Andrews’ foreman and felt led to intervene. I’ll tell you the whole story inside over supper.”
“Come in and eat with us, Alejandro,” he added to the Cuban.
Over supper, Williams explained the situation to Roderick, who ate with Williams, as was his custom. As he finished explaining the situation, Roderick’s face became concerned. “Sir, how do you plan to find this man’s wife and daughter?”
Williams replied, “I’m not sure, Roderick. Alejandro couldn’t understand what was going on, since he knows no English. But I think that we should be able to go into town tomorrow and convince Johnson, who runs the market, to let us look at the sales records to see who bought them.”
“I hope it will be that easy, sir,” Roderick said.
Williams sighed. “Me, too, Roderick. Me, too.”
As they approached the house, the slanted sunlight of a spring evening provided a warm beauty to the structure. Like the Colonel’s, it was white, but it was built in a more modern style, three stories tall with no front porch. Smoke rose lazily from the back chimney. Off to its right, numerous poorly-constructed shacks marked the slaves’ quarters. Cotton, bean, and tobacco fields spread in every direction for almost as far as Williams could see. The holdings of Mister Bryce Andrews were vast, far greater than his own, and he knew that Andrews had a reputation for being a cruel, dishonest man. He only hoped that he could buy Alejandro from Andrews for less than twice what Andrews had paid.
As the arrived at the front entrance to the house, they dismounted. With a stern reminder that Alejandro had to stay outside, Fulton entered.
“Wait, here, Alejandro,” Williams said in Spanish, and then he, too, went inside.
The inside of the house was nowhere near as beautiful as the outside. The main hallway was decorated haphazardly, with hunting trophies, weapons, and portraits hanging randomly on the wall. A painting of Andrews’ great-grandfather hung between a firearm and the giant head of buck, perhaps to indicate this was the man’s prize catch. Neither animal nor weapon hung next to Andrews’ portrait, a picture obviously painted many years ago, when Andrews was in his twenties. If any were to hang there, thought Williams, the animal would be a man and the weapon would be a crooked ledger sheet.
Fulton led him down the hall to the second door on the right, a double door of solid oak, stained deep brown. Knocking on the door, he waited for his boss’s acknowledgement before entering.
“What is it, Fulton?” demanded Andrews, a heavyset man with receding hair and thin eyebrows.
“Mister Andrews, sir, I was disciplining one of the new servants we have here on the plantation when Colonel Williams here interrupted me, claiming that the man did not understand. I told him to mind his own business, but he wouldn’t listen. He talked to the man for a minute or so and then insisted that he meet with you for some reason.”
Andrews frowned. “You do realize, Colonel,” he asked in a quiet yet threatening manner, “that I would be within my rights to have you arrested for trespassing and sabotage for your interference in the running of my plantation? I don’t appreciate people interfering in my business anymore than I imagine you like people involving themselves in yours.”
“I realize that full well, Mister Andrews,” Williams responded, undaunted by Andrews’ threatening calm, “but your foreman was beating a man who did not understand what was being asked of him because he speaks no English. This man was separated from his family at the market yesterday, and all he wants is to be reunited with them…”
Andrews interrupted before Williams could continue, “Ah, yes, a sob story.” He rose from his chair, turned his back to Williams and stared out the windows. “Do you realize how many tragedies I have heard in my life, Colonel?” he asked rhetorically, assuming a more formal speaking style. “More than a few, and they mostly are excuses concocted by lazy servants who wish to do as little as possible to get themselves freed from their contract of servitude as quickly as possible. This man’s story, I am sure, is nothing that I have not heard before. I would not take his word so quickly. After all, he did get himself into deep debt. How honest can he be?”
Williams shook his head. “You can disbelieve him if you wish, Mister Andrews, but I believe him. I’ve met many crooked and dishonest people in life, and Alejandro seems forthright to me.”
“So might the fox seem to the hounds, Colonel,” Andrews replied, turning to face Williams. “He could well be a skillful liar.”
“Have you ever talked with him, Mister Andrews? Have you heard his story?”
“I don’t talk with my servants in that way, Colonel. It only weakens my authority and makes me appear soft. Unyielding law and a just hand wielding it, those are the tools that bring about an ordered world, whether on a plantation or in a government.”
“I’m not here to discuss your philosophy of government. I’m here to help Alejandro.”
“Help him?” A puzzled look flashed across Andrews face before narrowing to uncertain suspicion. “How?”
“I intend to help him reunite with his family, which is why I wanted to talk with you.”
“Colonel,” Andrews said, smiling slightly, “If you think I know where his family is, you’re mistaken. I’ve no idea what I can do to help you find them. I bought him from the market owner, Mister Johnson, in town. He was by himself at that point, and if he had any family with him, they were nowhere to be seen.”
“I don’t want information from you on his family, Mister Andrews. I want to buy him from you,” Williams replied.
Andrews thought this over for a second, wrinkling his forehead into many tiny ridges. “Leave us, Fulton,” he ordered his foreman.
“Yes, Mister Andrews,” Fulton replied, exciting quickly and shutting the doors behind him.
“You want to buy this new man of mine, Colonel? Well, it’s not going to be inexpensive. This man indebted himself greatly to arrive here in the United States, and I paid off his debt. In return, he owes me seven years of labor. The only way I could part with him would be for what he will be worth to me as a worker.” He stopped, hoping that mentioning such a staggering figure would daunt Williams.
It didn’t. Andrews did not realize how wealthy Williams was. “How much are we talking, exactly, Mister Andrews?”
“I would say that twenty million dollars should cover it,” Andrews replied, a small, greedy grin filling his face.
Williams fought the urge to laugh. Was that all a slave was worth to Andrews? A few years of a common laborer’s salary? “All right, Andrews, you have a deal,” he said. Pulling out his checkbook, he wrote out the necessary check.
Andrews laughed. “I don’t understand why you’re really so interested in this guy, Williams, but he’s all yours now.” He resumed a serious demeanor. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I have other matters to attend to.”
Williams replied, “Of course, Mister Andrews.” He walked out of the man’s office, heading back out to the front of the house. Alejandro waited there, still sitting in the cart.
“You’re going to come with me, now, Alejandro,” Williams said in Spanish.
A huge smile spread across Alejandro’s face. “Are you going to help me find my family?”
“I will try, Alejandro,” Williams replied, climbing on the cart and starting to drive back to Providence.
The sun cast glorious shades of orange and red across the western horizon as the cart rattled to a stop in front of the carriage house. Roderick met Williams there; he clearly had been waiting for his employer to return with some concern.
“Where have you been, sir?” he asked. “Supper has been ready for a while, and we have been expecting you.”
“I’m sorry, Roderick,” Williams replied, “but I saw Alejandro, here, being mistreated by Bryce Andrews’ foreman and felt led to intervene. I’ll tell you the whole story inside over supper.”
“Come in and eat with us, Alejandro,” he added to the Cuban.
Over supper, Williams explained the situation to Roderick, who ate with Williams, as was his custom. As he finished explaining the situation, Roderick’s face became concerned. “Sir, how do you plan to find this man’s wife and daughter?”
Williams replied, “I’m not sure, Roderick. Alejandro couldn’t understand what was going on, since he knows no English. But I think that we should be able to go into town tomorrow and convince Johnson, who runs the market, to let us look at the sales records to see who bought them.”
“I hope it will be that easy, sir,” Roderick said.
Williams sighed. “Me, too, Roderick. Me, too.”
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 2, pt. I
Chapter 2 – Alejandro
The next day, the green fields again shone in the bright sun as Colonel Williams rode home from an errand in town. It was close to five in the afternoon. He sung softly to himself as he approached the fields of the slaves, remembering the songs that he had heard them sing on the many occasions. Today, though, there was no singing as he neared the fields. All he heard was shouting. Loud pleadings of mercy interwove with cruel shouts of anger and the intermittent crack of a whip.
As the fields came into view, Williams saw the reason for the turmoil. A new slave, small in stature and dark tan as one from the Caribbean, cowered on the ground. Towering over him was the overseer, enraged and off his horse. The whip in the overseer’s hands rose and fell on the slave’s back again.
“Up, you lazy good-for-nothing,” the foreman shouted at the slave. “You’re far behind the others in weeding your row, and you’re going to get me whipped if you don’t get your lazy butt in gear.”
The slave looked up at the foreman in bewilderment. It was clear to everyone but the foreman that he had no clue what the foreman was saying. Tears filled the slave’s eyes, and the distant look in his eyes told of a pain far greater than that of a few whip blows. Though he knew it would not work, he addressed the foreman once more in Spanish, “No entiendo, Señor. No hablo inglés.”
The foreign language further incensed the irate foreman. “Shut your mouth or speak in English, foreigner,” he screamed. He proceeded to curse the slave with various slurs as he raised his whip to deliver another blow.
The blow never fell. Colonel Williams’ strong hand grabbed the foreman’s arm just before it began its downward swing. The two men strained against each other, the foreman determined to finish his interrupted stroke. Being so focused on the recalcitrant slave, he had not noticed the arrival of Williams.
“Enough! Enough, Fulton,” Williams said, grunting with the strain of restraining the other man’s arm. “It’s perfectly clear this poor man has no idea what he’s done wrong or why he’s being beaten.”
Chad Fulton, the foreman, swore. “And it’s perfectly clear that you’re meddling in business that has nothing to do with you, Colonel Williams. This servant hasn’t been doing his job, and it’s my job to make sure he does it. So, let me finish my job and get the rest of my crew back to work.” He fully expected to be able to overcome the older Williams, and the Colonel’s strength surprised him.
“I’m not going to let you beat him, Fulton,” Williams replied, sweat on his forehead and a glint in his eyes. “And I’m going to stand here as long as I need to in order to keep you from beating him more.”
“This isn’t your business, Colonel,” Fulton repeated. “Mister Andrews isn’t going to take kindly to your meddling in his affairs.”
“Let’s deal with Andrews in a minute, Fulton. For now, you’re done. Let me talk to the man and at least try to explain the situation. If you don’t make your quota, I’ll intervene with your master so that you don’t get beaten.”
The promise of protection seemed to satisfy Fulton a little. He stopped straining and dropped the whip to his side.
“Now, what’s going on here?” Williams demanded.
A slave spoke up, “Well, Colonel, this new guy was brought in here today…”
Fulton interrupted, “Silence, sla…servant!” With his whip, he lashed the shoulder of the slave who had spoken. “Let that teach you to speak out of turn!
“What’s going on here, Colonel, is that Mister Andrews purchased this man’s services yesterday in town, fair and square. The man cried all night and has only gotten half a day’s work done in near a day’s time. I’m just trying to discipline the laziness out of him.”
Williams stared at the foreman in amazement at the man’s cruelty. “Did it ever occur to you, Fulton, that this man hasn’t understood a thing you said and that he’s mourning for a good reason? Did it ever occur to you to find out what’s bothering him?”
“I don’t rightly care, Colonel,” Fulton replied, spitting some tobacco juice on the ground to accentuate his indifference. “My only concern is getting these fields tended the way Mister Andrews wishes. And I don’t care for any of that ‘I don’t understand’ nonsense. He understands this well enough.” He patted his whip.
“Let me talk to him a minute, Fulton. I know some Spanish from my years in the military.”
“All right, Colonel. If you can speak his nonsense language, go for it. I’m not going to make my quota as it is, but you’d better hold to your promise to speak up for me to Mister Andrews.” He turned to the rest of the slaves who were standing around in fear. “Everybody else back to your quarters. You’ll be fed at the usual time.”
The slaves wandered away, except for the man on the ground, whom Fulton dragged to his feet and held him back. “This here man wants to talk to you, ‘Al-le-hand-row’, so listen up good, ‘k?”
The bewildered expression of the man still indicated that he had clue what was going on, but he also knew better than to resist the force of the foreman.
Williams looked at the man with pity. “Who are you?” he asked the slave as best he could in Spanish. “Why are you here?”
“Señor,” the slave replied in Spanish, “thank you for keeping this man from beating me any more. I’m Alejandro, and I came from Cuba two weeks ago with my wife and daughter. Upon arriving here, the man who transported us suddenly tripled his fare. Unable to pay, we were forced to sell ourselves into slavery to try to pay off the debt. The man who ran the market assured me that he would keep our entire family together, but when our turn came, I was bought by one man and my family another. Now, I’m trapped here, separated from them, and I’m probably never going to see them again!” He began to cry again.
“Don’t worry,” Williams reassured him. “I know the man who bought you. I can buy your freedom, and then I’ll help you search for your family.”
“Oh, Señor, gracias, gracias,” Alejandro replied. “This is more than I could have hoped for. If you can do this, I will become your slave.”
“I don’t want a slave, Alejandro,” Williams said, “I want to help you.”
He turned to Fulton. “Quiero hablar…err…I mean, I want to speak to Mister Andrews as soon as possible, Fulton. And I want Alejandro to come with us.”
“All right, Colonel. You can come back with me, but Alejandro’s going to have to wait outside. We don’t allow field workers to come into the house.”
The next day, the green fields again shone in the bright sun as Colonel Williams rode home from an errand in town. It was close to five in the afternoon. He sung softly to himself as he approached the fields of the slaves, remembering the songs that he had heard them sing on the many occasions. Today, though, there was no singing as he neared the fields. All he heard was shouting. Loud pleadings of mercy interwove with cruel shouts of anger and the intermittent crack of a whip.
As the fields came into view, Williams saw the reason for the turmoil. A new slave, small in stature and dark tan as one from the Caribbean, cowered on the ground. Towering over him was the overseer, enraged and off his horse. The whip in the overseer’s hands rose and fell on the slave’s back again.
“Up, you lazy good-for-nothing,” the foreman shouted at the slave. “You’re far behind the others in weeding your row, and you’re going to get me whipped if you don’t get your lazy butt in gear.”
The slave looked up at the foreman in bewilderment. It was clear to everyone but the foreman that he had no clue what the foreman was saying. Tears filled the slave’s eyes, and the distant look in his eyes told of a pain far greater than that of a few whip blows. Though he knew it would not work, he addressed the foreman once more in Spanish, “No entiendo, Señor. No hablo inglés.”
The foreign language further incensed the irate foreman. “Shut your mouth or speak in English, foreigner,” he screamed. He proceeded to curse the slave with various slurs as he raised his whip to deliver another blow.
The blow never fell. Colonel Williams’ strong hand grabbed the foreman’s arm just before it began its downward swing. The two men strained against each other, the foreman determined to finish his interrupted stroke. Being so focused on the recalcitrant slave, he had not noticed the arrival of Williams.
“Enough! Enough, Fulton,” Williams said, grunting with the strain of restraining the other man’s arm. “It’s perfectly clear this poor man has no idea what he’s done wrong or why he’s being beaten.”
Chad Fulton, the foreman, swore. “And it’s perfectly clear that you’re meddling in business that has nothing to do with you, Colonel Williams. This servant hasn’t been doing his job, and it’s my job to make sure he does it. So, let me finish my job and get the rest of my crew back to work.” He fully expected to be able to overcome the older Williams, and the Colonel’s strength surprised him.
“I’m not going to let you beat him, Fulton,” Williams replied, sweat on his forehead and a glint in his eyes. “And I’m going to stand here as long as I need to in order to keep you from beating him more.”
“This isn’t your business, Colonel,” Fulton repeated. “Mister Andrews isn’t going to take kindly to your meddling in his affairs.”
“Let’s deal with Andrews in a minute, Fulton. For now, you’re done. Let me talk to the man and at least try to explain the situation. If you don’t make your quota, I’ll intervene with your master so that you don’t get beaten.”
The promise of protection seemed to satisfy Fulton a little. He stopped straining and dropped the whip to his side.
“Now, what’s going on here?” Williams demanded.
A slave spoke up, “Well, Colonel, this new guy was brought in here today…”
Fulton interrupted, “Silence, sla…servant!” With his whip, he lashed the shoulder of the slave who had spoken. “Let that teach you to speak out of turn!
“What’s going on here, Colonel, is that Mister Andrews purchased this man’s services yesterday in town, fair and square. The man cried all night and has only gotten half a day’s work done in near a day’s time. I’m just trying to discipline the laziness out of him.”
Williams stared at the foreman in amazement at the man’s cruelty. “Did it ever occur to you, Fulton, that this man hasn’t understood a thing you said and that he’s mourning for a good reason? Did it ever occur to you to find out what’s bothering him?”
“I don’t rightly care, Colonel,” Fulton replied, spitting some tobacco juice on the ground to accentuate his indifference. “My only concern is getting these fields tended the way Mister Andrews wishes. And I don’t care for any of that ‘I don’t understand’ nonsense. He understands this well enough.” He patted his whip.
“Let me talk to him a minute, Fulton. I know some Spanish from my years in the military.”
“All right, Colonel. If you can speak his nonsense language, go for it. I’m not going to make my quota as it is, but you’d better hold to your promise to speak up for me to Mister Andrews.” He turned to the rest of the slaves who were standing around in fear. “Everybody else back to your quarters. You’ll be fed at the usual time.”
The slaves wandered away, except for the man on the ground, whom Fulton dragged to his feet and held him back. “This here man wants to talk to you, ‘Al-le-hand-row’, so listen up good, ‘k?”
The bewildered expression of the man still indicated that he had clue what was going on, but he also knew better than to resist the force of the foreman.
Williams looked at the man with pity. “Who are you?” he asked the slave as best he could in Spanish. “Why are you here?”
“Señor,” the slave replied in Spanish, “thank you for keeping this man from beating me any more. I’m Alejandro, and I came from Cuba two weeks ago with my wife and daughter. Upon arriving here, the man who transported us suddenly tripled his fare. Unable to pay, we were forced to sell ourselves into slavery to try to pay off the debt. The man who ran the market assured me that he would keep our entire family together, but when our turn came, I was bought by one man and my family another. Now, I’m trapped here, separated from them, and I’m probably never going to see them again!” He began to cry again.
“Don’t worry,” Williams reassured him. “I know the man who bought you. I can buy your freedom, and then I’ll help you search for your family.”
“Oh, Señor, gracias, gracias,” Alejandro replied. “This is more than I could have hoped for. If you can do this, I will become your slave.”
“I don’t want a slave, Alejandro,” Williams said, “I want to help you.”
He turned to Fulton. “Quiero hablar…err…I mean, I want to speak to Mister Andrews as soon as possible, Fulton. And I want Alejandro to come with us.”
“All right, Colonel. You can come back with me, but Alejandro’s going to have to wait outside. We don’t allow field workers to come into the house.”
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Rambling: A wife for Mr. Pi Thetahead
A student of mine recently suggested the following as the wife for Mr. Pi Thetahead. Meet Mrs. Delta Omegahead! Any thoughts?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 1, Pt. II
Society had changed much in the hundred or so years following the Great Collapse, an event that helped define the twenty-first century the way the Great Depression helped define the twentieth. The moral foundation of American society had already partially eroded, and political power had shifted more and more to the globalizers, a small group of “progressive” thinkers who, despite good intentions, took the country away from the progress it had made, weakening the flourishing economy through a series of poorly-constructed trade treaties.
As moral anarchy and economic weakness increased, many people abandoned any semblance of virtue in favor of making money. The money did them little good, though, when the dollar collapsed in value, losing half of its worth overnight. Americans went to bed rich; they woke up the next morning poor. As inflation started to spiral out of control, emergency measures to prevent complete institutional collapse went into place. The measures did little good, though, for the damage had already been done to the global economy. Without the United States to consume as many of their goods and services, multiple nations saw their economies collapse. Even prosperous, developing countries like China and Saudi Arabia experienced horrible downturns. Unemployment soared to record highs globally. Charismatic leaders appeared in many of the nations, promising better times but only proving to be dictators who created better times merely for themselves. Terrorism increased, even in the United States, as angry, out-of-work people took out their frustrations in bombings and sabotage. These actions pushed the teetering global economy over the edge. A second Great Depression began.
Within fifty years of being at its most prosperous, the global economy hung in ruins, a crumbling colossus ready at any second to succumb fully to its own weight. By seventy-five years after the Great Collapse (for so the plunge of the dollar and the resulting anarchy came to be known), a new generation had grown up not knowing anything different. The lessons of history and the stories of more prosperous times became mere legends, repeated by grandfathers to their grandchildren, at least those grandchildren who knew who and where their grandfathers were.
With technology dying and the need for work rising, animal-power and man-power replaced machine-power, especially on the farm. Because of the economic inability to produce gasoline, transportation regressed to horse-drawn vehicles. Likewise, to aid in meeting the need for agricultural labor, Congress passed laws allowing for temporary indentured servitude for those who could not otherwise pay their debts. These indentured servants, though, too often became permanent slaves when the protections written into the law were not enforced. In an environment of moral ambivalence, law enforcement and the courts turned a blind eye to the plight of the people. The country became an oligarchy – power in the hands of a few – with a façade of democracy.
As the economy stuttered along, people unable to pay their debts – sometimes entire families – sold themselves into servitude with the hope of a better life. What they often got, though, was poor treatment, far worse than any that had been seen in the history of the vile institution of slavery. Even after the debts were paid off, many landowners in desperate need of labor found ways to keep their “servants” permanently in debt, working them until they died at an early age. As a result, the demand for new slaves remained constant, and the impoverished society provided ample supply.
So it was that every Tuesday in the town closest to Providence Estate, people sold themselves. For the last four weeks, Colonel Williams had gone into town to observe the market, and each time he had come back in ponderous thought.
“There must be something I can do, Roderick,” Williams said as he handed his supper plates to the butler to clean up. “I can’t let these people keep destroying themselves in this way. But what?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the butler countered, “but is there much that you can do? You cannot pay the debts of every person. And you know that the end of servitude would mean impoverishment for us all. In short, sir, leave the matter alone. You, at least, free those servants whom you buy, and often well before their debt is fully paid. Your wife, sir, would be proud.”
Williams face contorted for just a second in a spasm of pain. “Leave Keren out of this, Roderick. You know that she didn’t like the thought of any person bound even for a minute in the horrible shackles of servitude. She’d be just as passionate as I am about doing something. I must do something!”
Roderick paused before replying. Each week, the Colonel’s mood upon returning worsened, and each week, Roderick did what he could to distract the Colonel from his melancholy thoughts. “Well, sir,” the butler said, “if you must do something, be sure not to do something too rash. I would hate to lose an employer as kind as you.”
Williams had to smile at that. Roderick had worked for Williams ever since Williams married his wife twenty years ago. “And I’d hate to lose a butler as trustworthy as you, old friend. Don’t worry. Whatever I do won’t be so reckless as to endanger my estate.”
Getting up from the table, the Colonel returned to his study, sat down at his desk, and proceeded to pray and think well into the night.
As moral anarchy and economic weakness increased, many people abandoned any semblance of virtue in favor of making money. The money did them little good, though, when the dollar collapsed in value, losing half of its worth overnight. Americans went to bed rich; they woke up the next morning poor. As inflation started to spiral out of control, emergency measures to prevent complete institutional collapse went into place. The measures did little good, though, for the damage had already been done to the global economy. Without the United States to consume as many of their goods and services, multiple nations saw their economies collapse. Even prosperous, developing countries like China and Saudi Arabia experienced horrible downturns. Unemployment soared to record highs globally. Charismatic leaders appeared in many of the nations, promising better times but only proving to be dictators who created better times merely for themselves. Terrorism increased, even in the United States, as angry, out-of-work people took out their frustrations in bombings and sabotage. These actions pushed the teetering global economy over the edge. A second Great Depression began.
Within fifty years of being at its most prosperous, the global economy hung in ruins, a crumbling colossus ready at any second to succumb fully to its own weight. By seventy-five years after the Great Collapse (for so the plunge of the dollar and the resulting anarchy came to be known), a new generation had grown up not knowing anything different. The lessons of history and the stories of more prosperous times became mere legends, repeated by grandfathers to their grandchildren, at least those grandchildren who knew who and where their grandfathers were.
With technology dying and the need for work rising, animal-power and man-power replaced machine-power, especially on the farm. Because of the economic inability to produce gasoline, transportation regressed to horse-drawn vehicles. Likewise, to aid in meeting the need for agricultural labor, Congress passed laws allowing for temporary indentured servitude for those who could not otherwise pay their debts. These indentured servants, though, too often became permanent slaves when the protections written into the law were not enforced. In an environment of moral ambivalence, law enforcement and the courts turned a blind eye to the plight of the people. The country became an oligarchy – power in the hands of a few – with a façade of democracy.
As the economy stuttered along, people unable to pay their debts – sometimes entire families – sold themselves into servitude with the hope of a better life. What they often got, though, was poor treatment, far worse than any that had been seen in the history of the vile institution of slavery. Even after the debts were paid off, many landowners in desperate need of labor found ways to keep their “servants” permanently in debt, working them until they died at an early age. As a result, the demand for new slaves remained constant, and the impoverished society provided ample supply.
So it was that every Tuesday in the town closest to Providence Estate, people sold themselves. For the last four weeks, Colonel Williams had gone into town to observe the market, and each time he had come back in ponderous thought.
“There must be something I can do, Roderick,” Williams said as he handed his supper plates to the butler to clean up. “I can’t let these people keep destroying themselves in this way. But what?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the butler countered, “but is there much that you can do? You cannot pay the debts of every person. And you know that the end of servitude would mean impoverishment for us all. In short, sir, leave the matter alone. You, at least, free those servants whom you buy, and often well before their debt is fully paid. Your wife, sir, would be proud.”
Williams face contorted for just a second in a spasm of pain. “Leave Keren out of this, Roderick. You know that she didn’t like the thought of any person bound even for a minute in the horrible shackles of servitude. She’d be just as passionate as I am about doing something. I must do something!”
Roderick paused before replying. Each week, the Colonel’s mood upon returning worsened, and each week, Roderick did what he could to distract the Colonel from his melancholy thoughts. “Well, sir,” the butler said, “if you must do something, be sure not to do something too rash. I would hate to lose an employer as kind as you.”
Williams had to smile at that. Roderick had worked for Williams ever since Williams married his wife twenty years ago. “And I’d hate to lose a butler as trustworthy as you, old friend. Don’t worry. Whatever I do won’t be so reckless as to endanger my estate.”
Getting up from the table, the Colonel returned to his study, sat down at his desk, and proceeded to pray and think well into the night.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Rambling: Technical Difficulties
I am posting this from another computer, as I am currently unable to get my computer to connect correctly to the Internet. Because of these technical difficulties and a wedding I am a part of this weekend, it will be Sunday night or Monday at the earliest before I can post the rest of Chapter 1. Sorry.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Ch. 1, Pt. I
Chapter 1 – Market Day
A bright, spring sun shone down on the green cotton fields of southeastern Georgia. Out among the fields, slaves could be seen, bent over nearly double as they tended the still-tender plants. Dressed in mostly raggedy clothes of dark colors and light-colored, broad-brimmed hats, the slaves sang as they toiled. A person walking on the nearby country road could easily have heard the tune as it wafted over the otherwise quiet farmlands.
The songs they sang were old melodies refitted with new words to describe their plight or to encourage each other under the cruel eye of their overseer. He was a tall man who sat on a high horse. His muscular frame slumped forward on the saddlehorn as he watched his charges labor. From his posture, it was obvious that he did not care much for the slaves, his job, or their singing.
The slaves did not care what the overseer thought. They sang. From the time they got up until the last rays of sunlight snuck over the horizon, they sang. If you asked them why they sang when conditions were so dire, they would tell you that they were not sure. Maybe it was to distract them from having to think so much about their work. Maybe it was because it was the one act of defiance they would never receive punishment for. Or maybe it was because many of them realized that, for them, this world was not their home. Regardless, they sang unceasingly.
Many a passerby, whether on foot or in a cart, stopped for a few minutes to listen to the beautiful, bittersweet melodies of the slaves. However, today, a rare event happened. An open cart, dusty brown and pulled by a solitary horse, rolled right past the melodious fields, its driver too preoccupied to notice where he was. His horse knew the way home, and that is where the driver wanted to be as quickly as possible.
On another day, this man would have instantly commanded respect of all around him. Today, though, his somber face held an absent look as if his thoughts had stayed behind at the place of departure. Still, it was clear from his immaculate suit and strong features that he used to be a military man and an important one at that. Without a doubt, here rode a retired officer, for his hair was peppered with premature gray hair that too often comes with the stresses of battle.
The driver remained lost in thought as the cart reached its destination, his farm, if that word could describe so expansive a place. Encompassing nearly a hundred acres and including a large, colonial mansion, the grounds had ample space for roaming in the woods as well as for growing. The primary crops of beans and cotton took up some of the space, although plenty of land remained uncultivated, lying fallow as part of crop rotation. Only two entrances – one to the north and one to the south – broke the line of a twelve-foot-tall hedge that demarcated the property. A double gate guarded each entrance. These barred, iron gates were rectangular in shape, taller than wide, with an ornate pattern adorning the top. On the right-hand gate of each entrance, a large bronze sign hung, identifying the farm and its owner – Providence Estate, Colonel Bill Williams, esquire. It was to one of these entrances that horse, cart, and rider now arrived.
Stopping the horse, Colonel Williams stepped down from the cart and opened the gate that led into the estate. The gate swung open with little effort; it was well maintained. Leading the horse and cart through the gate, the man swung the gate back closed behind the cart, latching it shut from the inside. He wanted no visitors today.
Remounting the cart, he drove up to the carriage house, which was little more than a small, red barn remodeled. It stood a little removed from the mansion. After arriving at the house, he unhooked the horse and set it free to roam in the corral, leaving the cart sitting in front of the carriage house.
He approached the mansion. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and gave a pleasant softness to the great white pillars that marked the front of the two-story structure. The pillars supported the roof over the fenced-in front porch, a location where Williams and his few staff would gather during the warm season to enjoy the cool of evening. Two stories of windows sat evenly spaced within the walls on all four sides, and numerous chimneys indicated the presence of many fireplaces for heat during the winter. From only one did smoke rise, that of the kitchen at the back of the great house.
Williams quickly strode up the steps to the porch, entered by the front door, and went straight into his study. Volume upon volume of old books, some written in arcane dialects of English that few could read, lined the shelves of three walls. Sunlight streamed in through large windows on the fourth side. A large desk sat near the middle of the room, slightly closer to the windows than the door and facing outward to allow for a commanding view of the western woods and the small creek that trickled its way through on the way to the river several miles away. Most of the farming occurred in the eastern half of the estate, while the western half remained untouched forest.
Walking over to the large leather armchair in one corner of the room, Williams plopped down into it, sighing as he did so. He sat there for some time in a dark reverie, and it was a knock on the door and the question of a clear voice that rescued him from it.
“Colonel Williams, sir,” said the man at the door, “dinner is almost ready, sir. Will you come?”
Williams looked up. At the door stood one of his few staff, the ever-loyal butler. “So soon, Roderick? It’s too early, isn’t it?”
“No, sir,” replied Roderick in his New England accent, “It is actually late. It is after six o’clock now, and I know that you generally dine promptly at half past five.”
“How can it be after six? I just returned from town but a few minutes ago.”
“You have been lost in thought, Colonel, for nearly an hour and a half. It appears that time has gotten away from you.” Roderick hesitated for a second before continuing, “If I may, sir, something appears to be bothering you since you returned from town. You locked the front gate early, and I had to unlock it for the butcher’s weekly delivery. And you have been sitting there in your armchair, oblivious to the world ever since you came home. What is wrong, if I might ask?”
Williams frowned, his face darkening in a mix of sadness and rage. “It was market day in town, Roderick.”
“Yes, sir,” Roderick answered. He knew what market day meant, and why it saddened Williams. Market day meant the buying and selling of many items, including people.
A bright, spring sun shone down on the green cotton fields of southeastern Georgia. Out among the fields, slaves could be seen, bent over nearly double as they tended the still-tender plants. Dressed in mostly raggedy clothes of dark colors and light-colored, broad-brimmed hats, the slaves sang as they toiled. A person walking on the nearby country road could easily have heard the tune as it wafted over the otherwise quiet farmlands.
The songs they sang were old melodies refitted with new words to describe their plight or to encourage each other under the cruel eye of their overseer. He was a tall man who sat on a high horse. His muscular frame slumped forward on the saddlehorn as he watched his charges labor. From his posture, it was obvious that he did not care much for the slaves, his job, or their singing.
The slaves did not care what the overseer thought. They sang. From the time they got up until the last rays of sunlight snuck over the horizon, they sang. If you asked them why they sang when conditions were so dire, they would tell you that they were not sure. Maybe it was to distract them from having to think so much about their work. Maybe it was because it was the one act of defiance they would never receive punishment for. Or maybe it was because many of them realized that, for them, this world was not their home. Regardless, they sang unceasingly.
Many a passerby, whether on foot or in a cart, stopped for a few minutes to listen to the beautiful, bittersweet melodies of the slaves. However, today, a rare event happened. An open cart, dusty brown and pulled by a solitary horse, rolled right past the melodious fields, its driver too preoccupied to notice where he was. His horse knew the way home, and that is where the driver wanted to be as quickly as possible.
On another day, this man would have instantly commanded respect of all around him. Today, though, his somber face held an absent look as if his thoughts had stayed behind at the place of departure. Still, it was clear from his immaculate suit and strong features that he used to be a military man and an important one at that. Without a doubt, here rode a retired officer, for his hair was peppered with premature gray hair that too often comes with the stresses of battle.
The driver remained lost in thought as the cart reached its destination, his farm, if that word could describe so expansive a place. Encompassing nearly a hundred acres and including a large, colonial mansion, the grounds had ample space for roaming in the woods as well as for growing. The primary crops of beans and cotton took up some of the space, although plenty of land remained uncultivated, lying fallow as part of crop rotation. Only two entrances – one to the north and one to the south – broke the line of a twelve-foot-tall hedge that demarcated the property. A double gate guarded each entrance. These barred, iron gates were rectangular in shape, taller than wide, with an ornate pattern adorning the top. On the right-hand gate of each entrance, a large bronze sign hung, identifying the farm and its owner – Providence Estate, Colonel Bill Williams, esquire. It was to one of these entrances that horse, cart, and rider now arrived.
Stopping the horse, Colonel Williams stepped down from the cart and opened the gate that led into the estate. The gate swung open with little effort; it was well maintained. Leading the horse and cart through the gate, the man swung the gate back closed behind the cart, latching it shut from the inside. He wanted no visitors today.
Remounting the cart, he drove up to the carriage house, which was little more than a small, red barn remodeled. It stood a little removed from the mansion. After arriving at the house, he unhooked the horse and set it free to roam in the corral, leaving the cart sitting in front of the carriage house.
He approached the mansion. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and gave a pleasant softness to the great white pillars that marked the front of the two-story structure. The pillars supported the roof over the fenced-in front porch, a location where Williams and his few staff would gather during the warm season to enjoy the cool of evening. Two stories of windows sat evenly spaced within the walls on all four sides, and numerous chimneys indicated the presence of many fireplaces for heat during the winter. From only one did smoke rise, that of the kitchen at the back of the great house.
Williams quickly strode up the steps to the porch, entered by the front door, and went straight into his study. Volume upon volume of old books, some written in arcane dialects of English that few could read, lined the shelves of three walls. Sunlight streamed in through large windows on the fourth side. A large desk sat near the middle of the room, slightly closer to the windows than the door and facing outward to allow for a commanding view of the western woods and the small creek that trickled its way through on the way to the river several miles away. Most of the farming occurred in the eastern half of the estate, while the western half remained untouched forest.
Walking over to the large leather armchair in one corner of the room, Williams plopped down into it, sighing as he did so. He sat there for some time in a dark reverie, and it was a knock on the door and the question of a clear voice that rescued him from it.
“Colonel Williams, sir,” said the man at the door, “dinner is almost ready, sir. Will you come?”
Williams looked up. At the door stood one of his few staff, the ever-loyal butler. “So soon, Roderick? It’s too early, isn’t it?”
“No, sir,” replied Roderick in his New England accent, “It is actually late. It is after six o’clock now, and I know that you generally dine promptly at half past five.”
“How can it be after six? I just returned from town but a few minutes ago.”
“You have been lost in thought, Colonel, for nearly an hour and a half. It appears that time has gotten away from you.” Roderick hesitated for a second before continuing, “If I may, sir, something appears to be bothering you since you returned from town. You locked the front gate early, and I had to unlock it for the butcher’s weekly delivery. And you have been sitting there in your armchair, oblivious to the world ever since you came home. What is wrong, if I might ask?”
Williams frowned, his face darkening in a mix of sadness and rage. “It was market day in town, Roderick.”
“Yes, sir,” Roderick answered. He knew what market day meant, and why it saddened Williams. Market day meant the buying and selling of many items, including people.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Story: Colonel Williams, Foreword
Before I post the first part of the initial chapter of the new story I'm working on, I wanted to say a few things about it.
First, it is a rough draft, even in its current form. I've tried to go back and rewrite it enough to make it flow, but I reserve the right to go back and rewrite (and repost) any particular section of the story, as required by subsuquent story developments.
Secondly, I welcome comments. Tell me if something doesn't make sense. Tell me if somebody calls someone by the wrong name. Tell me if the dialogue sounds worse than Star Wars: Episode II. I don't mind. I'm not a professional writer, and I don't really aspire to be. This is just a hobby to alleviate the summertime blahs a little. So, fire away with your thoughts. It'll help me make the story more enjoyable.
Thirdly, and finally, I will do my best to update the story every couple of days. There will be a couple of times when that will not be possible, and I will do my best to let you know in advance when the delays will occur. Remember, though, that writer's block is always unscheduled. :-)
With those three ideas in mind, check back tomorrow for the first part of Chapter 1!
First, it is a rough draft, even in its current form. I've tried to go back and rewrite it enough to make it flow, but I reserve the right to go back and rewrite (and repost) any particular section of the story, as required by subsuquent story developments.
Secondly, I welcome comments. Tell me if something doesn't make sense. Tell me if somebody calls someone by the wrong name. Tell me if the dialogue sounds worse than Star Wars: Episode II. I don't mind. I'm not a professional writer, and I don't really aspire to be. This is just a hobby to alleviate the summertime blahs a little. So, fire away with your thoughts. It'll help me make the story more enjoyable.
Thirdly, and finally, I will do my best to update the story every couple of days. There will be a couple of times when that will not be possible, and I will do my best to let you know in advance when the delays will occur. Remember, though, that writer's block is always unscheduled. :-)
With those three ideas in mind, check back tomorrow for the first part of Chapter 1!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Commentary: Money, Money, Money
It's a sad, sad day in Kansas. The Kansas Supreme Court has ordered the State Legislature to come up with $285 million more for public schools. Apparently, an extra $124 million was not enough to be "adequate". The key word there is adequate. I disagree with this decision for three reasons.
First, I think the court has overstepped its bounds tremendously, telling the Legislature exactly what it is supposed to do. That sounds like the courts making the law instead of interpreting it. It is the Legislature's job to provide adequate funding. If districts disagree with what is adequate, then they may petition the courts and the courts can decide if the legislature has provided adequate funding. However, the court has overstepped its bounds by setting a specific amount and setting a deadline for doing it. Who's in charge around here?
Secondly, the extra money is not going to adequately fund education. If it is merely adequate funding that is necessary (not extraordinary funding nor amazing funding...the state could easily bankrupt itself if it had to provide that much funding), then the courts out to consider private schools and notice how much they spend per pupil. It is quite less than the public schools, even when special education programs are discounted. The problem with the public schools is not that there is not enough money. It is that, in many districts, the money is being used inefficiently. Adding more money will only lead to greater waste because people with bigger budgets tend to spend more, and the state of the education will not improve.
Thirdly, there is no extra money to give to the schools. The state has nearly bankrupted itself by giving an extra $142 million to education. Any additional money will have to come from raising taxes, which will be damaging to the recovering economy, prevent businesses from coming to the state, and prevent consumers from having money to invest in the economy. It is going to harm the state more than help.
Like I said, it's a sad day in bankrupt, overtaxed Kansas
First, I think the court has overstepped its bounds tremendously, telling the Legislature exactly what it is supposed to do. That sounds like the courts making the law instead of interpreting it. It is the Legislature's job to provide adequate funding. If districts disagree with what is adequate, then they may petition the courts and the courts can decide if the legislature has provided adequate funding. However, the court has overstepped its bounds by setting a specific amount and setting a deadline for doing it. Who's in charge around here?
Secondly, the extra money is not going to adequately fund education. If it is merely adequate funding that is necessary (not extraordinary funding nor amazing funding...the state could easily bankrupt itself if it had to provide that much funding), then the courts out to consider private schools and notice how much they spend per pupil. It is quite less than the public schools, even when special education programs are discounted. The problem with the public schools is not that there is not enough money. It is that, in many districts, the money is being used inefficiently. Adding more money will only lead to greater waste because people with bigger budgets tend to spend more, and the state of the education will not improve.
Thirdly, there is no extra money to give to the schools. The state has nearly bankrupted itself by giving an extra $142 million to education. Any additional money will have to come from raising taxes, which will be damaging to the recovering economy, prevent businesses from coming to the state, and prevent consumers from having money to invest in the economy. It is going to harm the state more than help.
Like I said, it's a sad day in bankrupt, overtaxed Kansas
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Rambling: Episode III and New Story
I saw Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith today. I don't want to say anything about the plot in case there's actually someone out there who hasn't seen it, yet. However, I will say that it does a good job of completing the story of the prequels, setting the stage well for Episode IV. Does it do it perfectly? No. In my opinion, there are a couple of illogical/unmotivated occurrences in the story, and the acting/dialogue is a littled stilted at times.
Ratings (out of ten)
Story: 7 (Most of the lose ends tie up, but some actions seem unmotivated)
Acting: 6 (At times, the dialogue sounds more like a cold reading)
Cinematography: 10 (The visuals, as usual, are what Lucas does best)
Overall: 7 (Good action can't overcome stilted acting)
I'm working on a new story, but the initial two scenes aren't quite ready, yet. I'll try to have the initial scene out by the middle of next week, but no promises.
Ratings (out of ten)
Story: 7 (Most of the lose ends tie up, but some actions seem unmotivated)
Acting: 6 (At times, the dialogue sounds more like a cold reading)
Cinematography: 10 (The visuals, as usual, are what Lucas does best)
Overall: 7 (Good action can't overcome stilted acting)
I'm working on a new story, but the initial two scenes aren't quite ready, yet. I'll try to have the initial scene out by the middle of next week, but no promises.
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