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alliecat8I'm STARTING with the author's notes on this one, because it needs a heap o'explainin'! First, this is (just under the wire) birthday fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
holycitygirl, who requested Sawyer getting killed by tree frogs. (!) holycitygirl is a unique genius who makes me laugh and I adore her, so death-by-tree-frog it is (sorta!).
Second, this is about as Southern a fic as you can get. In my world, Sawyer grew up in the foothills of the Smokies, just outside of Knoxville.holycitygirl might be the only reader who can appreciate my Southernisms!
Title: Spooks
Character: Sawyer
Rating: Um, PG-13 for spookiness, I guess
Word Count: 973
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Warnings: Possible character death
Spoilers: None
Spooks always called to him.
When he was little, he used to take down his mamaw’s quilts, the ones she hung over the front windows like curtains, and drag them out to the screened porch. There was a cane-bottomed rocker on that porch, and an old wood burning stove that they never lit in the summertime, and if he pushed them close together and hung the quilts over them both, he’d have himself a tent. He could lie in that tent for hours, listening to the whispers and thinking things over, until he’d feel the weathered floorboards beneath him sag and smell cigarette smoke, and his papaw’s pea-gravel voice would say, “You playin’ possum again, boy?”
James wouldn’t answer at first because, sure enough, he was playing possum. Long as he was out here, pretending to be asleep, he didn’t have to be in the quiet of his own bed.
His papaw would grab hold of the rocker then, yanking it backward and burying James in musty, dusty cotton, and James hated it when that happened so finally, one night, he decided to quit playing possum and ‘fess up.
“I’m listenin’ to the spooks.” He stuck his head out from between the folds of his tent and blinked in the too-bright moonlight. “Hear ‘em?”
“Ain’t no such thing as spooks, son.” That sneer was in his papaw’s voice, the one that was always there whenever he used the word “son.” “Even if there was, spooks ain’t for hidin’ from. Spooks are for facin’ down, lookin’ straight in the eye.”
James wasn’t afraid of his papaw. Wasn’t afraid, even though he knew the old man hated him. He knew that every time he looked at him he saw James’ daddy, his real son. His son who shared James’ dimpled blond features, who’d used those looks to marry up, made something of himself, made his daddy proud and then went and shot it all to hell with two blasts of a gun. His papaw thought James’ daddy was a coward for turning that gun on himself, not on the man who deserved it. James wasn’t a coward like his daddy had been. He didn’t like it one bit that his papaw thought he was.
“I ain’t hidin’.” James scowled. “I’m just listenin.’ If I knew what they looked like, I’d find 'em and shoot ‘em down like a bear.”
His papaw snorted. “Son, you ain’t never shot no bear.” He grabbed a lantern from the peg beside the door. “C’mon, boy, we’re goin’ huntin’.”
James didn’t see his papaw’s shotgun anywhere in sight, so he was a little worried about this midnight hunting trip. But he wasn’t a coward, so he followed without saying a word. The screen door slammed behind them, bounced and slammed again, and something that might have been a raccoon scurried across the yard. The grass was cold and wet with dew under his bare feet as he ran to keep up with his papaw’s long strides. Moss and mud squished between his toes as they got closer to the river’s edge. The moon was so high that it almost looked like daytime, except that the water of the Little Pigeon River was blacker than the sky as it slid and gleamed over massive dark rocks. He stubbed his toe on one of the pebbles that littered the shore, but he didn’t cry out, didn’t remind his papaw that his mamaw didn’t let him come down here without shoes. James was tough, and he’d prove it.
“Spooks,” his papaw laughed, not a happy laugh but one that made James grit his teeth. “Look here, boy, them’s your spooks, right there.” He leaned over and set the lantern down on a rock, one that had a natural hollow in it that formed a pool of clear water. In the murky light James could see shapes like tiny fish swimming in the pool.
“Those’re tadpoles,” James said, a mite too scornfully, and earned himself a hard cuff to his ear.
“They’re your spooks, sure ‘nuff,” his papaw said, with another of those grinding laughs. He reached for the lantern and swung it upward, toward the overhanging branches of a looming hemlock. There, plastered against the tree bark as if they were stuck there with glue, were hundreds of little green frogs. The same kind of frogs that slithered up and down his bedroom windows after they’d had a spell of hard rain. “They’re just frogs,” James said, sullen now that he knew his papaw was playing tricks. He’d been ready to face his spooks, look ‘em in the eye, and all he got was frogs.
“Tree frogs. See what they’re doin’?” His papaw held the lantern closer to the branch. “They’re rubbing their back legs together. That’s the sound you hear. Ain’t no spooks in these parts, son. Just frogs. A big ol’ passel of frogs.”
***
The spooks still call to him. Even now, in another time and another place, a place about as far from the foothills of the Smokies as you can get. Ocean instead of river, jungle instead of forest, and James isn’t even James anymore, he’s Sawyer. Yet the spooks still call.
He lies in his tent, listening to the whispers. The whispers beckon him, calling him into the jungle. But almost no one goes into the jungle anymore. They don’t go now, since the Others discovered their camp, because going into the jungle means death. And yet the whispers still call to him, and beneath their song he hears his papaw’s voice. “Spooks ain’t for hidin’ from, son. Spooks are for facin’ down, lookin’ straight in the eye.”
“Ain’t no spooks in these parts,” he tells himself. “It’s nothin’ but frogs.” And he lets the jungle lure him in.
link to Prologue 2: Third Saturday in October
holycitygirl, who requested Sawyer getting killed by tree frogs. (!) holycitygirl is a unique genius who makes me laugh and I adore her, so death-by-tree-frog it is (sorta!).Second, this is about as Southern a fic as you can get. In my world, Sawyer grew up in the foothills of the Smokies, just outside of Knoxville.
holycitygirl might be the only reader who can appreciate my Southernisms! Title: Spooks
Character: Sawyer
Rating: Um, PG-13 for spookiness, I guess
Word Count: 973
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Warnings: Possible character death
Spoilers: None
Spooks always called to him.
When he was little, he used to take down his mamaw’s quilts, the ones she hung over the front windows like curtains, and drag them out to the screened porch. There was a cane-bottomed rocker on that porch, and an old wood burning stove that they never lit in the summertime, and if he pushed them close together and hung the quilts over them both, he’d have himself a tent. He could lie in that tent for hours, listening to the whispers and thinking things over, until he’d feel the weathered floorboards beneath him sag and smell cigarette smoke, and his papaw’s pea-gravel voice would say, “You playin’ possum again, boy?”
James wouldn’t answer at first because, sure enough, he was playing possum. Long as he was out here, pretending to be asleep, he didn’t have to be in the quiet of his own bed.
His papaw would grab hold of the rocker then, yanking it backward and burying James in musty, dusty cotton, and James hated it when that happened so finally, one night, he decided to quit playing possum and ‘fess up.
“I’m listenin’ to the spooks.” He stuck his head out from between the folds of his tent and blinked in the too-bright moonlight. “Hear ‘em?”
“Ain’t no such thing as spooks, son.” That sneer was in his papaw’s voice, the one that was always there whenever he used the word “son.” “Even if there was, spooks ain’t for hidin’ from. Spooks are for facin’ down, lookin’ straight in the eye.”
James wasn’t afraid of his papaw. Wasn’t afraid, even though he knew the old man hated him. He knew that every time he looked at him he saw James’ daddy, his real son. His son who shared James’ dimpled blond features, who’d used those looks to marry up, made something of himself, made his daddy proud and then went and shot it all to hell with two blasts of a gun. His papaw thought James’ daddy was a coward for turning that gun on himself, not on the man who deserved it. James wasn’t a coward like his daddy had been. He didn’t like it one bit that his papaw thought he was.
“I ain’t hidin’.” James scowled. “I’m just listenin.’ If I knew what they looked like, I’d find 'em and shoot ‘em down like a bear.”
His papaw snorted. “Son, you ain’t never shot no bear.” He grabbed a lantern from the peg beside the door. “C’mon, boy, we’re goin’ huntin’.”
James didn’t see his papaw’s shotgun anywhere in sight, so he was a little worried about this midnight hunting trip. But he wasn’t a coward, so he followed without saying a word. The screen door slammed behind them, bounced and slammed again, and something that might have been a raccoon scurried across the yard. The grass was cold and wet with dew under his bare feet as he ran to keep up with his papaw’s long strides. Moss and mud squished between his toes as they got closer to the river’s edge. The moon was so high that it almost looked like daytime, except that the water of the Little Pigeon River was blacker than the sky as it slid and gleamed over massive dark rocks. He stubbed his toe on one of the pebbles that littered the shore, but he didn’t cry out, didn’t remind his papaw that his mamaw didn’t let him come down here without shoes. James was tough, and he’d prove it.
“Spooks,” his papaw laughed, not a happy laugh but one that made James grit his teeth. “Look here, boy, them’s your spooks, right there.” He leaned over and set the lantern down on a rock, one that had a natural hollow in it that formed a pool of clear water. In the murky light James could see shapes like tiny fish swimming in the pool.
“Those’re tadpoles,” James said, a mite too scornfully, and earned himself a hard cuff to his ear.
“They’re your spooks, sure ‘nuff,” his papaw said, with another of those grinding laughs. He reached for the lantern and swung it upward, toward the overhanging branches of a looming hemlock. There, plastered against the tree bark as if they were stuck there with glue, were hundreds of little green frogs. The same kind of frogs that slithered up and down his bedroom windows after they’d had a spell of hard rain. “They’re just frogs,” James said, sullen now that he knew his papaw was playing tricks. He’d been ready to face his spooks, look ‘em in the eye, and all he got was frogs.
“Tree frogs. See what they’re doin’?” His papaw held the lantern closer to the branch. “They’re rubbing their back legs together. That’s the sound you hear. Ain’t no spooks in these parts, son. Just frogs. A big ol’ passel of frogs.”
***
The spooks still call to him. Even now, in another time and another place, a place about as far from the foothills of the Smokies as you can get. Ocean instead of river, jungle instead of forest, and James isn’t even James anymore, he’s Sawyer. Yet the spooks still call.
He lies in his tent, listening to the whispers. The whispers beckon him, calling him into the jungle. But almost no one goes into the jungle anymore. They don’t go now, since the Others discovered their camp, because going into the jungle means death. And yet the whispers still call to him, and beneath their song he hears his papaw’s voice. “Spooks ain’t for hidin’ from, son. Spooks are for facin’ down, lookin’ straight in the eye.”
“Ain’t no spooks in these parts,” he tells himself. “It’s nothin’ but frogs.” And he lets the jungle lure him in.
link to Prologue 2: Third Saturday in October
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 04:32 am (UTC)The idea of the whispers in the jungle holding that double meaning to him...loved it!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 04:38 am (UTC)MY
GOD
This was so good. You painted such a vivid picture with this fic. (I actually HEARD my grandmother's screen door slamming). I don't know if it IS because it is soooo southern and we've lived it or if you are just that good.
But I certainly don't want to hear anymore about you not having any words.
I still remember the time when I was around 8 and we had a really rainy summer and the frogs came out. My best friend Carmella and I snuck one our pocket and brought it in the house to keep as a pet. It got loose and my mother had a fit.
Because this fic IS all things southern ---it made me feel so at home with Sawyer.
I love how you tied the two worlds, created the disaproving grandfather, and then left us hanging with Sawyer's trip to the woods. I didn't know how you were going to do it (I mean I knew you were going to turn it into something good but...) - but you did it perfectly.
And I love you.
And applaud you.
Take this as high praise from a "unique genius". lol --(I'm having that put on my business cards. )
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 04:51 am (UTC)It fits very much into that realm of Southern Writers, with all the charm and voice and nuance of Eudora Welty or Flannery O'Connor or Carson McCullers. It's so good, and just the right edge of creepy.
I just love it. You're back, baby!!! :)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 06:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 04:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 07:14 pm (UTC)Yes, I was quite spooky because those others (and how many are there now??) are just waiting and biding their time.
Love it!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-14 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-15 12:20 am (UTC)*adds to fic hare*
Very vivid...this needs a sequel. *nods* Find out what Sawyer finds when he goes chasing them spooks...more frogs? Island monster? Jack waiting to pounce on him and fuck him stupid?
*blinks* *peers at 3rd one*
If you don't write it, I will, damn it.
*marries fic a second time for good measure* ;p
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-15 04:20 am (UTC)This is graceful and utterly engaging. Brilliant yarn. :)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-15 05:51 am (UTC)So glad you're back!! And boy, are you! This was incredibly atmospheric, really dark and so very much in tune with sight, sound, touch. Sometimes you just hit it, girl. James' grandfather hating him for looking like his dad, and the way they interacted... that was almost as haunting to me as the creepy night sounds. Good job!
*latches on to you, doesn't let you escape, ever*
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-15 09:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-16 12:01 am (UTC)And I love the way that you made it all come full circle with him listening to the whispering from the jungle. Brilliant.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2005-12-18 02:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-02-16 03:30 am (UTC)What a wonderful ficlet! Spent many a summer on the Little Pigeon wadin' in the cold mountain water and screechin' away from water moccasins, which were probably never really there, with my mean sisters letting me get to the middle of the swinging bridge that ran across it and then making it shake and bounce and sway until I sat right down and cried in terror. Ah, yeah - loved that river. Can't hardly find it any more, now that Townsend runs all the wall-to-wall way to Gatlinburg - now that it's the haze of car exhaust that puts the "smoke" in the Smokies.
*sigh*
But you have the tone oh-so-right. Mamaw and Papaw and tent quilts on the front porch, screen doors slammin and raccoons out in the yard. And little James, playin' possum, cause if you play it long enough just maybe the pain will give up on you and just go away....
I love this fic - what a surprise that I would - and I love that you are a East Tennessee girl. Just how special is that?
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-02-27 02:28 pm (UTC)And how oddly prescient this one is, eh? Tree frogs! Eerie! TPTB writers couldn't have read this, could they? Naaah!
Well-written, tightly crafted story. Just, great!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 11:37 pm (UTC)"Even if there was, spooks ain't for hidin' from. Spooks are for facin' down, lookin' straight in the eye."
Oooh, grandfather is a tough old coot, isn't he?
"I ain't hidin'." James scowled. "I'm just listenin.'
Bravo! I can see that mini-Sawyer glowering!
(The same kind of frogs that slithered up and down his bedroom windows after they'd had a spell of hard rain.
Must ask - do they really climb up the windows?)
"Tree frogs. See what they're doin'?"
*blinks* Uh oh. Am sort of bouncing for the frog-backstory, while thinking how this sets up all sorts of unpleasant connections regarding frogs in James' head. Poor future island frog.
I really like the ending of this, how you've used the grandfather's sneering words in Sawyer's memory as a sort of talisman he's invoking to psych himself up. It's good to know his papaw's gruffness helped him to grow stronger.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-11-16 02:19 pm (UTC)This was really good, I loved the atmosphere here, the dark and the whispers. I love the resentment that James' grandfather felt towards him because he saw the failure of his own son every time he looked at James, that rang very true and also explains some of Sawyer's views towards himself. I love how he's trying to be brave here, following his grandfather to face his spooks, but it all winds up being for nothing and he just feels like he's being made fun of again.
I love how years later, even though pretty much everything has changed, he's still that little boy somewhere inside and he still hears the spooks calling. Really effective ending.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-11-27 05:31 am (UTC)Dear, this is gorgeously written. Really. It feels less like fanfic and more like just plain ol' fic to me (if you know what I mean, and if that doesn't sound awful to say). I'm just always astounded by some of your phrasing and word choice, so much so in this story that I hesitate to start cutting and pasting phrases. But this one's a good example:
The moon was so high that it almost looked like daytime, except that the water of the Little Pigeon River was blacker than the sky as it slid and gleamed over massive dark rocks.
Anyway, this piece sets a nice tone. (I appreciate your southernisms, too, BTW.) I'll be happy to see where you take our boys. :)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 12:34 pm (UTC)As soon as I have a good amount of time, I'll start reading your novella :)
(no subject)
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