First: I hate snow, but nothing shuts down a call center like a Nor'easter. Work kicked us out at 3pmand I'll get paid for the hours I didn't get to work. ::does the Happy Dance::
If a Nor'easter was a person, I'd kiss it flat on the mouth.
Anyway--
In his seventy-sixth year, Efram Marshall had come to realize that he didn't need much sleep. So he found himself up and about until long past midnight, doing crosswords and watching Law & Order and perusing the antique compasses on eBay. He'd restricted himself to one a month.
You've immediately done three things: banged out a kickass first line that ensures we'll keep reading. 2) Provide us with a likeable, interesting character and 3) made us suspect the calm of his life will be shortly shattered.
It was pleasant, also, to sit on his porch in the warm June air, listening to the nighthawks diving for gnats, and the whip-poor-wills calling from down by the creek. Crickets and cicadas and frogs chorusing endlessly as he rocked slowly on the glider, his beer growing warm, his feet chilly in their scuffs.
He rarely had company, living as he did. Down at the end of a twisty dirt road, his house half-hidden by cottonwood and cedar. Rarely, but sometimes – sometimes the Rockaway boys, sometimes old Gunther Lapp, as much of a night-owl as Efram. But mostly nothing disturbed the long nights. Tonight, though... Efram watched a pair of headlights duck in and out through the trees, coming fast up his road. Faster than Gunther would ever drive – faster than the Rockaways, idiot boys that they were. Efram wondered if there was some sort of emergency and stood up, indecisive, on his front porch.
The set up.
He'd been a medic in the Army – had patched up and shipped out an endless string of soldiers over in Korea. Came home and then did it all over again in Vietnam. Once that mess was behind him, he'd settled into his own little practice right here in Rock Creek. Mostly retired now – everybody wanted to go over to Topeka anymore. But sometimes...
So we know he's a doctor, a brave and caring one, that people trust. He's steady, been through two wars--he's a stand-up guy, and we're even more on his side than we were at the opening of the story.
And, dear gods, we don't wish Sam and Dean on him . . . likely banged up, feral and looking for a place to hide till the heat passes.
The car swept up his drive, big and black and unknown, rumbling like a bear.
Growling like a wolf =/
It jerked to a stop much too close to the porch and Efram felt that familiar little fluttery twist in his gut. Had to be bad, somebody coming here. Coming to him, so late – so frantic.
"You the doc?" Voice hoarse and raw, low. Not shaky at all.
"I am. Son –"
"Don't call me that. My brother's hurt, and you're gonna fix him. Right now."
Ah . . . this is just after Kansas. John's noticeably absent Dean not liking Efram calling him "son"--though he and Sam didn't care for that when John was alive. . . .
"Here, now, let me help –" Efram said and the gun twitched up again, the man shooting Efram a look of pure venom as he laid his brother down onto the scarred wood.
Of course Dean can't trust the doctor at all--he's holding a gun on the man! People are much more likely to help and much less likely to try to "get ya".
But of course, this Dean and Sam wouldn't understand that on any level.
"All right, now, all right... How'd you boys know where I live?" Efram asked, peeling the gauze away. A standard Army field dressing lay underneath, saturated with more blood – streaked with dirt.
"You helped our dad once. Set his arm," the gunman said, and Efram looked up at him in surprise.
"I did? You boys live around here?"
Interesting . . . did he patch up John's arm in Vietnam, or something? Or when John was a kid? When Sam and Dean were kids? Did they used to live in this town, once upon a time? I know the boys are from KS, just cna't remember the name of the town.
no subject
::does the Happy Dance::
If a Nor'easter was a person, I'd kiss it flat on the mouth.
Anyway--
In his seventy-sixth year, Efram Marshall had come to realize that he didn't need much sleep. So he found himself up and about until long past midnight, doing crosswords and watching Law & Order and perusing the antique compasses on eBay. He'd restricted himself to one a month.
You've immediately done three things: banged out a kickass first line that ensures we'll keep reading. 2) Provide us with a likeable, interesting character and 3) made us suspect the calm of his life will be shortly shattered.
It was pleasant, also, to sit on his porch in the warm June air, listening to the nighthawks diving for gnats, and the whip-poor-wills calling from down by the creek. Crickets and cicadas and frogs chorusing endlessly as he rocked slowly on the glider, his beer growing warm, his feet chilly in their scuffs.
He rarely had company, living as he did. Down at the end of a twisty dirt road, his house half-hidden by cottonwood and cedar. Rarely, but sometimes – sometimes the Rockaway boys, sometimes old Gunther Lapp, as much of a night-owl as Efram. But mostly nothing disturbed the long nights. Tonight, though... Efram watched a pair of headlights duck in and out through the trees, coming fast up his road. Faster than Gunther would ever drive – faster than the Rockaways, idiot boys that they were. Efram wondered if there was some sort of emergency and stood up, indecisive, on his front porch.
The set up.
He'd been a medic in the Army – had patched up and shipped out an endless string of soldiers over in Korea. Came home and then did it all over again in Vietnam. Once that mess was behind him, he'd settled into his own little practice right here in Rock Creek. Mostly retired now – everybody wanted to go over to Topeka anymore. But sometimes...
So we know he's a doctor, a brave and caring one, that people trust. He's steady, been through two wars--he's a stand-up guy, and we're even more on his side than we were at the opening of the story.
And, dear gods, we don't wish Sam and Dean on him . . . likely banged up, feral and looking for a place to hide till the heat passes.
The car swept up his drive, big and black and unknown, rumbling like a bear.
Growling like a wolf =/
It jerked to a stop much too close to the porch and Efram felt that familiar little fluttery twist in his gut. Had to be bad, somebody coming here. Coming to him, so late – so frantic.
"You the doc?" Voice hoarse and raw, low. Not shaky at all.
"I am. Son –"
"Don't call me that. My brother's hurt, and you're gonna fix him. Right now."
Ah . . . this is just after Kansas. John's noticeably absent Dean not liking Efram calling him "son"--though he and Sam didn't care for that when John was alive. . . .
"Here, now, let me help –" Efram said and the gun twitched up again, the man shooting Efram a look of pure venom as he laid his brother down onto the scarred wood.
Of course Dean can't trust the doctor at all--he's holding a gun on the man! People are much more likely to help and much less likely to try to "get ya".
But of course, this Dean and Sam wouldn't understand that on any level.
"All right, now, all right... How'd you boys know where I live?" Efram asked, peeling the gauze away. A standard Army field dressing lay underneath, saturated with more blood – streaked with dirt.
"You helped our dad once. Set his arm," the gunman said, and Efram looked up at him in surprise.
"I did? You boys live around here?"
Interesting . . . did he patch up John's arm in Vietnam, or something? Or when John was a kid? When Sam and Dean were kids? Did they used to live in this town, once upon a time? I know the boys are from KS, just cna't remember the name of the town.