This one is going to be a bit different than the others. Why just write about the characters that I don't like? (because I can) Why not write another ending for a character I do like. Sylvie from Sarah Orne Jewette, I think she deserves at least this:

The Cow-Spotted Horse

          After the first time Sylvia climbed the great pine-tree her grandmother could not keep her out of the trees. She was excellent at climbing them and would spend hours in their branches. The hours another child might have played with friends Sylvia was learning how to twitter with the songbirds. The hazy summer days other country children were heading out to waterholes to swim Sylvia was climbing to the highest branches and being rocked by the breezes that only reached the tops of the trees. In the fall Sylvia would even help the squirrels, one would show her the fullest acorn or hazelnut trees and she would climb them and shake the heavy boughs so the squirrels could collect and burry more nuts than they could eat (she never knew how many trees were started because of her actions). The squirrels got fat and happy. The birds learned a few more songs and Sylvia grew tall and strong.

          One day, as she was about to leap into her favorite tree, she heard a furious whinnying coming form the swamp, she wasn’t in a hurry to get the cows, they were always in the same spot, so she went to investigate.

Their “horned torment” had passed on a few years ago but had mysteriously turned up pregnant one year, and fortunately for everyone involved, she had easily delivered the twins. How and Now Sylvia had proudly named them, but because they were brown like their mother no one could ever figured out how they had occurred.

They were slightly less capricious than their mother, once they started milking they dutifully came to the barn in the morning, but Sylvia had to bring them in for their evening’s milking. It was a game their mother had taught them, but they seemed to be a little confused on the rules. They were always in the same spot, by the fence line. Sylvia had a sneaking suspicion that was where they may have occurred, but it was never confirmed.

Sylvia had plenty of time, once she had been tasked with getting all three, so the simpler two cows were no difficulty. Her grandmother had even let her go “to get the cows” early with a gleam in her eye, as if she knew Sylvia liked quiet time in the woods. Not that there wasn’t work at the house, the two cows made a lot of milk, some of which they made into cottage cheese and some of which they churned into butter.

Sylvia followed the sounds and came upon quite a sight. The boy from the adjacent farm was pulling on a horse’s reins trying to dislodge it from the muck to no avail.

“It’ll never work that way,” Sylvia said quietly. He turned and jumped noticing he was no longer alone with his horse.

 “Do you have experience removing horses from these damnable swamps?” The boy asked impatiently, still pulling the reins.

“Not horses, cows,” she turned fully ready to leave them both to his bad temper.

“Wait,” When he called out to her, his voice cracked, before returning to its original register, and Sylvia realized that he was about her age, and in truth not really a boy at all. “I’m sorry, I’ve had a really horrible day. I was riding in the forest when out of nowhere comes this huge white bird. It spooked Charley good. He threw me and ran out here.” He sighed again, “I would be appreciate if you could help me get him loose.” He gave her a rather sheepish look. Marcus was his name, she remembered now, they had been introduced once but neither of them had been paying much attention, her grandmother had been trying to got Marcus’s family to buy some of their butter, and after a spell they had come to terms.

“Your horse’s name is Charley?” Sylvia couldn’t help but smile.

“Well he is my family’s,” the boy blushed a little bit, “but my little sister named him.”

“Well let’s get Charley free,” Sylvia hiked up her skirts and grabbed up the horse’s reigns.

It took a while but between the two of them pushing, and pulling, and urging Charley to fight through the mire they finally got him free. The sun was setting now. While they had been extricating Charley How, and Now had wandered up. They lowed impatiently, tired of waiting for her, and with their udders painfully full, they were more than ready to be lead home.

Sylvia suddenly remembered, “I have to go, grandmother will be worried about me being so late,” she started moving the cows toward home.

“You’re Mrs. Tilly’s granddaughter, right?” Marcus said suddenly right beside her leading Charley behind them. “Sylvy, that’s your name right?” She was surprised he remembered her name, and a small part of her was happier than she wanted to admit.

“Yes, we’ve met before.” Suddenly meeting his eyes was harder for her, “But I’ve really got to get them home now.”

“And what kind of person would I be, to leave you to walk home alone, after keeping you so long helping me save my Charley horse,” It was Sylvia’s turn to blush, but she quickly covered it with her laugh. “I’m in trouble for sure once I get home, but I could tell Mrs. Tilly why you’re late.”

He was very thoughtful, Sylvia thought, as she agreed to him helping her herd the girls home. They talked comfortably along the way, and Sylvia found if she didn’t look at him she wasn’t as nervous, but she never really had liked too many people.

Strangely when Sylvia arrived at their home with Marcus, her grandmother wasn’t nearly as worried as Sylvia thought she would be, but the knowing gleam in her eyes was even brighter as she asked Marcus to stay for dinner. He was already resigned to the dressing down he knew he was getting when he got home, and they might even send him to bed without any supper, so he gladly accepted. As they ate he told Mrs. Tilly the story of his misfortune and of Sylvia’s great heroism and quick-wittedness in helping him rescue his horse form certain death. Sylvia blushed quite a bit as his tale grew but he embellished the tale only enough to make Sylvia seem like his God-sent savior. He also praised Mrs. Tilly’s cooking as if he hadn’t eaten in years. Sylvia noted that her grandmother enjoyed his complements a great deal. Marcus was really rather charming, she found herself thinking as she watched him talk.

Before he left Her grandmother gave Marcus the butter his family usually got from them, saying she had been meaning to bring it over soon anyway. Before he left he took Sylvia’s hand, thanking her again. He made a great show of bowing and kissing her hand gently.

After he left her grandmother crossed her arms over her chest and addressed Sylvia with the gleam almost a blaze in her eyes now, “So is that what’s been sending you out earlier to bring the cows in?”  

“Oh, no grandmother!” Sylvia was horrified thinking her grandmother thought she was doing things she had no business doing, “This is the first time I’ve seen him on my way to get them, I swear.”

Grandmother gave her an appraising look with a final look into her eyes for good measure and made a noncommittal sound, “Is that so?” Sylvia nodded emphatically “Then I suppose we’ll be seeing a bit more of young Marcus in the future.” Sylvia thought that was a strange thing for grandmother to say, but it turned out she was right.

That night Marcus’s mother remarked that she had never seen a boy so happy to be sent to bed without supper (because he wasn’t supposed to be riding Charley anyway, and his father had walloped him good for that.), but from that day forward he always offered to get the family’s butter from the next -door farm. Even though his father made him walk the first few times, as a punishment, he was happy to do it. But from that day forward he always had a sugar lump or apple piece for Charley, and whenever he went fishing or gigging frogs he always grabbed at least one or two extra and left them near the nest Sylvia showed him on their second walk. It seemed only right, to thank that heron for spooking Charley. If it hadn’t then Marcus might never have seen that sweetest smile in the world. The one that made him decide, that when they were old enough, he was going to marry Sylvia. And once he set his mind to something, Marcus usually got it done.  

So I was trying really hard to write my epilogues in a style vaguely similar to the ones the original story was written in, but I met  my match with Richard Wright. I tried so hard to match his dialogue that it gave me a headache and took me about a month, then I gave up on it...but I'm sure if you really want to you can read it in that particular dialect, but I can't write in it. A wise man knows when he's lost. So now let's look in on our almost man Dave after he hopped the train with his "manhood" firmly in his pocket...

Half-Man Full-Grown

            Dave had found his way into an unlocked car and slept for a while. He had been in the rail car for almost a full day when the nightmare came. He was in the field with Jenny, they were working in the back field. When there was a thunderous sound and suddenly Jenny was bleeding all over. Again Dave tried to stop the blood with some mud but she just kept bleeding faster and faster. There was another loud bang, it seemed to shake his whole body. Now it was pouring out, gushing like a fountain over his arms and him filling his mouth, it tasted like sand. He awoke with a shout. Realizing that the train was shuddering to a stop. It still felt like his mouth was full of sand. He sat for a moment catching his breath. He hadn’t eaten or drank anything all day. I ain’t neva been so thirsty in all m’life, Dave though about his momma’s biscuits, and wished he was back home.

He still had the gun, shurly he could rustle up somethin with that. He looked out the doorway of the train car. It was dark now, he’d been in the car all day. S’no time to waste or I’m gonna starve right here in this railcar, he thought. Dave jumped out of the box car and started walking down the track. Suddenly he smelled something that made his stomach growl. He followed the smell till he came upon two men sitting around a fire passing a bottle back and forth between the two of them. Suddenly they stopped and turned toward him.

“Who’s ‘ere!” The bigger of the two yelled.

Dave had to swallow twice before he could answer, his throat was so dry, “My name is Dave…’n I shore is hungry.”

The smaller man laughed, “Well ain’t we all, boy. You better just run on home before you get yourself in trouble.”

They were laughing at him again, and treating him like a child. But I ain’t gotta take that no more, Dave thought as he pulled the gun out of his pocket. ”I ain’t no boy.” He yelled. “Now I’m just gonna take what you got. Whachu think about that.” The men’s eyes got big, Dave felt proud of himself, now finally he was getting the respect of a man.

“Where’d you get that gun at boy?” Asked the bigger one.

“I aint no boy,” Dave yelled again, but his voice sounded a bit less sure to even himself. The big one stood up and started slowly walking toward him “You stop right there’r I’ll shoot you, I swear it!”

The big one smiled, ”You ain’t got the sand, boy.”

Dave planted his feet and pulled the trigger, the click seemed even louder than the shots had been earlier, when he had emptied the gun.

“My, my Otis.” The smaller one still by the fire chuckled, “This here nigger was trying to make fools out’a us with his empty gun.”

For a big guy Otis was mighty quick, his hands were on Dave before he could think about running, “You try to make a fool out of me boy,” Otis picked Dave up by his shirt collar, “I’ll make a corpse outta you.” One of those men kept his word that night, and one never saw the next morning.      

Next on my list of etc. stories I choose Stephen Cranes’ Henry Fleming from The Red Badge of Courage. He was one of the "phony tough" not "crazy brave" to use Joker's words from Full Metal Jacket (1987). Lets take a look at him a bit after all the "bravery" he conjured the battlefield, and the war have left him far behind. Now granted, I did take a bit of liberty with the dates, but isn't that what fiction is, liberty taken, with things that may or may not have happened? Well in writing, as in life, some of us are a bit more free than others...

The Badges No One Else Can See

  "It's bad during the day, but worse at night." Henry mumbled to himself, as he hurried to the bar, the sun was setting, and now only a glimmer of it’s light remained. Henry was near his favorite place and surely there would be someone, anyone, there willing to share a bottle with a "bonafide war hero". If he could help it he would prefer to spend his last money on a room tonight. The streets were cold, and dangerous for a man of his age and experience. It didn't help that sometimes, even when he was safe in a room, he would forget where he was, and he would forget that he had left the war behind, years ago.

But, then, that wasn't really true, he had never left the war, not really. The ringing that never really left him was audible again seemingly increasing in volume, and an ache was starting around the side of his head. They were just a couple more souvenirs from his service. He was pretty sure the headache was from the soldier hitting him in the head with the rifle but he wasn't really sure, but where the knot had been, that was where the pain started. The ringing, well that was from the cannons, the sawbones told him. Sawbones, he saw a hacksaw biting into savaged flesh. Gawd, but he needed a drink.

    Henry gave a small derisive snort at his current predicament. The "quiet manhood" he had felt when leaving the battlefield had been replaced by screaming, hellish, nightmares. Once, he thought he had left the "red sickness of battle" on the field, but that too had proven a fallacy. No, in fact that "red sickness" had gone deeper and festered in his heart and mind. Maybe if he had gotten his "red badge of courage" he could have avoided this deeper wounding, maybe if he had stood his ground in the first battle, maybe if he had just died, maybe, maybe...He got a whiff of a freshly extinguished match...and like that he was back.

     The smoke was so thick he couldn't see but he could hear the opposing army rushing at him bearing down with an unstoppable force and like that day so long ago he ran. He ran as if the very hounds of hell were pursuing him, because he knew that's what they were. He ran so fast and so hard that he was past the man, almost before he saw him. 

     He caught only a glimpse of the face, “That's Jim Cronklin,” he thought dimly through his panic, but of course it wasn't Jim was dead, and he had played this game before. All he had to do was reach out and find that the man wasn't really there, but this time when he reached out to the man's shoulder his hand met warm flesh. Oh Gawd, he was real. Was this maybe some gift from above giving him the chance to right his previous wrongdoings? If only, what if…

          “We gotta go Jim, we gotta run…if not you’ll die again, come on.” Henry grabbed Jim’s shoulder and tried to pull him along but the man was rooted in his spot.

          “What’s this now? Unhand me sir!” Jim was pulling away from him now, as if driven to his untimely death. Henry was pulling him trying to move him into running with him, they could make the forest in no time flat if he would only…the fist came out of nowhere smashing into the side of his head, causing the ringing to hit a fevered pitch and slamming him back into his current reality.

Blinding pain, confusion. Vaguely, Henry heard,”…came out of nowhere…grabbed onto me… thought I was a John or Jack…” rough hands picked him up and shook him.

“What’s you business with this fine gentleman?”

Henry’s gaze focused on the policeman as he was being shaken. He’s played this game before too. He tried to slow his breathing and compose his face. “So sorry sir, my mistake I was just on the way to the bar…uh I thought this man was my friend, from the war, so sorry…”he rambled on a bit until the cop looked bored.

“Do you want to charge this vagrant?” The cop shook him again as if for good measure. Strange usually the cops were more lenient after mentioned being in the war, so this man must have been a Grey-Back. The well-dressed man said no, and the peace officer roughly let Henry go.  

          “Could you direct me to the nearest bar?” Henry asked the man who, now the old realized, in no way resembled his fallen comrade. The man was finely dressed and looked a respectable sort.

          “Yeah, over there,” the man gestured vaguely toward a building that Henry could clearly see was the type of establishment he was seeking. Loud and drunken voices could be heard so enthusiastic that not even the door or walls of the place could contain them. Henry quickly lurched toward the building. He needed that drink (now!) before his head split wide open, but this was not his bar, the drink would be his only comfort this night.     

          Henry shoved his way up to the bar and sat. The barkeep walked over and Henry quickly slapped the last of his money on the counter and asked for three fingers of their strongest, cheapest liquor. The money was swept away and Henry was left with his drink. At the first taste the ringing faded back into to it’s normal pitch. After the first swallow his breathing eased and his heart rate began to slow. Henry sighed.

          “Another,” he slapped the bar with his open hand.

          The bartender came back over, “How are you going to pay fer it?” He asked.

          “There was enough on the bar for three of what you gave me,” A small embellishment, but surely enough for two. Henry started to feel indignant, was this man going to try to cheat him, a war veteran?  Better men than this pup had died next to Henry in the war and now this slug had the nerve to cheat him…his temper flared. The barkeep knowing the look of a man about to get into trouble squared his stance behind the bar.

          “I’ll cover his next, sir” a cultured voice behind him made Henry spin around. It was the man from the street. The bartender shrugged and poured Henry out another.

Oh thank god for this man, this man who had found in the depths of his heart the will to aid his poor and battered fellowman. This man was the milk of human kindness; he was the beauty of charity. The man motioned again after Henry gulped the finger the bartender stingily meted out.

As the barkeep filled the glass once more, the love for the generosity of this man swelled within Henry so fully as he could barely contain it long enough to take a swig of the beverage that burned on the way down, clearing the ever encroaching fog of memory. Henry was so filled with love and gratitude toward this kind soul, and was about to speak of it to him, in honest and reverent thanksgiving over the gift of his blessing, which was now caressing his empty belly and filing him with the kind of courage only cheep whisky can provide. The man's voice cut through his haze of wonderment and said, "Tell us about your service then old man."

The words hit Henry like a blow. Of course in return for the drinks he needed to come up with a story for this young man, he had a ragged book and pencil in hand, so his man was a writer. Luckily for both of them Henry’s inner dialogue was as active as ever so he opened his mouth and let the folly of empty patriotism flow forth. He even found himself throwing in some song lyrics. What did he care more drinks were bought.

As the wave that was his thoughts slowed down to a trickle he took another drink, it was water now, he knew that meant soon he was to be left, on his own, with nothing but his demon memories to keep him warm.

Henry opened the door to them just a little, any more was too dangerous, but he heard himself say as if hearing himself talking in his sleep, "what could be more beautiful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the slaughter. Oh no, they did not stop to think, they died instead..."his voice trailed off as he took another gulp of water, his hand was trembling ever so slightly like his voice had near the end of his speech.

The writer stopped writing and looked at his dog-eared little book, "This may not be enough for a story, but it may make a fine poem, or a part of one." the writer scribbled down one more line, then he tipped his hat to the barkeep and waked out into the night. No doubt to a warm bed and sweet dreams. Henry envied the writer his easy sleep more than anything. 

 The bartender put up a few more glasses and started to wipe down the bar. Shooing out his lingering patrons, the barkeep slowly worked his way back to where Henry still sat as if lost, looking through the bar, at darkness only he could see. The barkeeper stood watching Henry for a moment then finally said, "Finish up your water sir, you have to go now."

     Henry paused before sipping from his glass again, "Is there really a place for men like me, in this world?"

     The bartender while sympathetic had no good answer for him, "I don't know sir, but it's not here."

     "Well you're right about that," Henry finished his water and wandered outside to find a nice warm corner to curl up in. With the roar of the cannons and the cries of the unnamed wounded as his constant company.

Before he passed out on he back side of the building, Henry realized that he had never asked the names of anyone he had spoken to tonight. More nameless faces for the pile, but at least those men were still alive and wouldn't haunt him."
   
 

I really hated the story of Editha, and I got to thinking about it and realized that in this format maybe I could do something about it...So here goes.

Editha II 

After she returned from George's mother's house things were not good. Editha would often wake suddenly from a dream about George. Sometimes he would be in her very room or she would see him lying in a field looking truly horrible all battered and covered in blood like thick red paint. He always asked her the same question with similar words. 

Why did she sent him on a fool's errand to die in a silly spat at the beginning of the war, a fight so early in the war that it had decided nothing. At first she woke up trembling and sweating filled with tears and a small amount of guilt. She was sure she looked a fright the days after those dreams, because she could never get back to sleep after them.

After her absolution, given by the colorist, Editha struck out in her life with a new vigor. Suddenly she was determined to make the best of every moment of it. George may had died, and she had not. 

When the next dream came she was ready, it was once again set in her room. Editha finally resorted to telling him that it wasn't her fault, she never forced him to go. "What about the letter you wrote?" he gasped. "I would have come back, right away, but I couldn't bare to live without you, my darling." At this, in her dream, she stomped her foot and yelled. "I never really loved you anyway, you should have done something to win me." She had awakened herself that night yelling, "I deserved so much better than you!" But after that the dreams had stopped. When she went down the next morning to break her fast with her family they all noted the high color in her cheeks and remarked that she looked as if a woman reborn,

Editha reveled in her newfound freedom. She dressed herself in the finest dresses and went to all the most fashionable dances and get-togethers. She was positively over the moon when she caught the eye of John, a respectable sophisticated man, and he was a doctor no less. Even her mother and father had been delighted that first time she had invited him home to eat supper with them. John showered her with gifts and attention and every bit of romance a woman could want. Editha determined that what she felt for George was only a passing fancy. Oh, but John, him she truly loved. 

When John proposed to her one night over dinner with her family, of course she accepted. Her mother had even congratulated her personally before Editha went to bed that night. 

"I had almost lost hope for you my dear," Her mother had exclaimed, "but now you've gone and married up."

All was well for about a year, John was a bit over protective, and he firmly believed a woman should have no reason to discuss politics or other "men's matters" as he called them. He did treat her so much like a child sometimes, but no matter, she loved him. So, Editha took to writing down her more political or personal thoughts. That took care of things satisfactorily, except for one small thing really. Occasionally, she would see a shadow out of the corner of her eye, and she felt it like a malevolent presence pressing on her chest, causing her heart to race and making it difficult for her to draw breath. Then, soon after that, she had started being startled awake at night, not remembering her dreams but feeling chilled all over. 

Editha had one day in exasperation mentioned this to John, he laughed at her and told her not to let her emotionings get away with her, being a doctor he knew better than anyone what was troubling her. She was with child, and as a result had developed a bit of gestational hysteria, "Nothing to worry about." He had assured her chuckling, "but you must take pains not to excite or over-exert yourself, my darling." for some dimly remembered reason his words made her blood run cold, and her knees went weak. He had skillfully swept in into a near-by chair, his face now more serious. 

"I am putting you on strict bed rest." Editha had opened her mouth to argue, but he held up his hand. "This is not up for debate," he said in the voice that meant he had decided, and as the man of the house would be obeyed, "It is for the health of our baby, and yourself." And it was bed-rest she had, for months. It still happened on occasion but she convinced herself that it was truly her imagination, for nothing bad had happened. Editha even started laughing about it as she wrote about how right John had been after all. 

One night John had found her writing in her journal and flew into a positive rage, proclaiming that this useless overtaxing of her mind was the reason for her troubles.

"You are to stop this foolishness at once," he grabbed her journal without even looking down at it, and even though she gave an impassioned plea, saying that really it was no great strain, he threw it into the fire. "I forbid you to continue such actions as my wife," he had fairly roared at her "and I will be obeyed!" And so she had to start writing in secret. 

All was well, and she had a beautiful baby boy. But then the queerness started again, a shadow seen out of the corner of her eye, but now, it was much worse. When Editha was with her son, it was also accompanied by horrible visions. One day she even saw herself flinging her newborn son out of the window of his nursery. Editha had quickly dropped him back into his crib, a bit roughly if she were to be honest, and started screaming.

John had come running and seeing the state she was in escorted her back to their room. It was in reality hers now, for he had taken to sleeping in his study, her waking in the night had been disturbing him, and he needed his rest. 

The very next day he traveled the 5 miles to get his sister, "She's truly just over taxed, Janet." John had explained on the way to the house, "We will be taking a sabbatical into the country, at a estate house a friend has let me borrow for the summer, just until her confusion passes." Janet had nodded sagely at his words. "Oh and another thing, if she by chance mentions a brother named George, just agree with her, I want no undue stress put on her mind. Is that clear?" He spoke the last words in that tone that she hated. It sounded so much like their father.

"But wasn't she an only child, brother?" John waved her off and she fell quiet again. She was so excited at the prospect of a summer vacation from her parents, even with the baby to care for, it would be such a relief to get out of their house. Janet honestly didn't care if Editha fancied herself the queen of Egypt, it was no matter to her. 

They left for the estate a few days later. They arrived in the early afternoon. John first settled Jennie with baby William in a smaller bedroom, for Editha was now worthless with their son. The two of them had a meal, and he took Editha to her room. It was the only room she could be placed in honestly, the bed was bolted to the floor, just in case.

"Oh John, this whole place is so lovely!" She exclaimed, turning around in the center of the room, He smiled seeing in her the ghost of the woman he had married, feeling a bit of hope flare. 

Suddenly her smile dimmed a bit around the edges. Editha flounced back toward him and wrapped her arms around him. There was a look in her blue eyes, one she often had, in the past, when she wanted something from him. "Except, and I hesitate to mention it, it's such a silly little concern. But could something be done with this horrible yellow wallpaper?"

FInally!

Candace and Mrs. S. are sitting in Barnes and Noble in Lafayette---totally frustrated because we cannot create this blog!

However, we women WILL persevere and conquer the technology which seems to be against us.

This is our first post.

There will be more!