Category Archives: Madam Delaunney’s Inn
A western/horror short story miniseries also called ‘The Writer, the Girl, the Sheriff and the Madam’.
The conclusion to ‘Madam Delaunney’s Inn’… which is the name that Aaron finally decided up for this miniseries.
There’s nothing kind about this world. It doesn’t matter where you go or who you know, you have to live for whatever you can find. For a long time, I lived for my husband. He was a fine man. He loved me, he loved life, he loved what he did. He owned a mine and that underground business spawned a town that took his name, Gilbert.
I didn’t care what he did. It was who he was that brought me to him, not his career and not his fortune. I saw him on the street that dark April morning in London. He was different than the other proper men. He had a suit but the legs were muddied with his running through the puddles. He had money, but it was constantly being given away to anyone he thought needed it more than him. The moment a young girl tugged on his jacket tail and gave him a little yellow paper flower and he took it with a kiss on her cheek and a pat on her head, I knew I wanted him. I knew he’d been the one I was waiting for.
I left my sister in the shop and took to following him. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to speak to him, to smile at him. I’d been waiting longer than he’d probably believe for someone with his heart. My mind made no try at masking my intentions. I didn’t want to simply talk to him or let him take my hand. I was going to claim him as mine. Read the rest of this entry
The story continues. Why did Babette scream? What happened during the mysterious murders? Why am I speaking like an old soap opera narrator? Find out all this and less from the perspective of Gilbert Mines’ sheriff!
Nobody never saw much of me. I’d heard tell of some lawmen ‘cross the states, pride and joys of their towns. They’d patrol the streets in broad daylight, ridin’ top a great stallion, two six guns at their side and a long rifle in their pack. They was showmen. Least that’s what they’d have in the travelin’ shows. That’s what I heard was in them books people was readin’ out east. We’d have tourists comin’ in and asking for the sheriff during the day. My deputy’d have to tell them to come back after dusk.
Nothing ever happened in Gilbert Mines during the day. Even the accidents had been at night, each time under the biggest and brightest full moon you could see. I found that sleeping in spit of the son and haulin’ my tired behind in at nightfall was the only way I could keep going from dusk to dawn. I was never needed before that, or after. And, even then, the calls for my actions were few and far between. Of course, when they did come, they were dire. There’d been three or four brawls over the last month. First one ended in a young man’s death. He’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and just couldn’t climb a safe distance back. I couldn’t count the murders. They’d happened between a patrol. I heard the screams and the… whatever that other sound could have been… and I came runnin’. I grabbed my rifle first. I followed the sounds, no screamin’ then, just an animal eatin’ whatever it’d caught. Led me straight outside the inn.
Yeah, I saw it. Swear to all things holy, it was a strange type a bear I’d never seen before. I got a few shots off. Hit it’s side twice, then it got outta range right quick almost as if it knew that’s where the danger lessened. It headed out to the old mines. I know I hit it twice, both bullets landing not two inches from each other. You never forget a night like that. The littlest details stick for the longest time. Read the rest of this entry
This is the continuation of ‘The Writer’, from the perspective of young Elizabeth Gilbert.
It must be him.
I tied my bonnet down and exited the store. Eyes were upon me, as they have been for a while. I sent myself across the street during one of the long lulls of traffic.
My days seemed to roll into strange circumstances during those early years of my womanhood. From the first steps of my body’s steady voyage to maturity, new events were in constant chase. Quite a few were completely expected and to be taken with grace in the context of my age. Boys and men were taking notice and not for the innocent reasons which once drew their eyes. It was with a more primitive intent I could not altogether avoid. It was true that my own mind brought desires similar to theirs’ but I was one where they were many.
My waking hours were spent avoiding places where they congregated. Saloons and work houses had been taken off my map long ago. The reaction from most women in town was in deep contrast to their masculine counterparts. Perhaps their husbands’ attentions, falling on me at all waking and dreaming hours was the reason for the glares and snubbing. I avoided their places of worship as well. Read the rest of this entry
First in a four part short story series called ‘The Writer, The Girl, The Sheriff and Madam Delaunney”… perhaps Aaron may think to rename the series ‘Moon and Stars’.
“Watch yur step, Mr. Terrence, tha carr’age’s got icy”
Mr. Herrison, the coachman continued to attempt the charade at calling his coffin-on-wheels a ‘carriage’. I didn’t have the heart to remind him that carriages have seats, not planks of wood tethered to the ceiling with a thin twine prone to snapping under a poor writer’s practically nonexistent weight.
He was rather infallible about the weather, though. Before leaving, I had remarked on the need for sun and dry air. The east coast is a strange hell of flurries and sharp ocean gusts. I wanted warmth and prairies. Apparently, my research on the destination was poorly done. The papers and stories told me of a dusty, arid, sweltering California. They said nothing of how long the territory ran or how far north it’s highest reaches rested.
Nah, Mr. Terrence, things get mighty cold in Gilbert Mines. ’Specially in Jan’yary.
Then why the hell are we going there? Read the rest of this entry