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Manual Early Monday Moanin: Under Her Apron

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Old Jeb said the poor boy didn't have the strength to fret much anymore.

Ties That Bind

She'd overheard him say he reckoned the Mr. Hetfield would be with the saints before the sun came up. Florabel couldn't bear the thought of it and had cried before a strong word from her mama had forced her to mind that he wasn't family and to stop fussing over it. She did her best to be brave, but it didn't seem fair. God had sent Mr. Hetfield to her, and now he was going to snatch him back before she could even find out what it all meant. Maybe he'd be like the cereus plant that bloomed when there was no cause or reason to believe it ever would.

Florabel stuck her knuckles in her sleepy eyes and gave them a good twist. She didn't expect things could get much darker than they were now, so she hoped dawn wasn't far off.

My Boring Night Routine

Right when she put her hands together to ask Jesus to let her keep Mr. Hetfield, the bed started to shake and thump against the wall. Florabel's lids snapped open and she bolted upright, staring wide-eyed. Everyone else jumped, too. He tried to hold the sick man down, but Mr. Hetfield flailed out of his grip. Hetfield to the bed. The child stood rooted in place, part in horror—part in fascination as Mr. Hetfield's muscles stretched tighter than she thought possible. His arms and legs thrashed like they had minds of their own while his eyes rolled deep in his head.

Uprooted by her mama's shouts, Florabel ran to the kitchen, grabbed the spoon and tore her way back, handing it to her mother. Emma placed the handle between the man's bloody teeth until the fit passed. Emma didn't answer. The woman looked at Jeb like she was about to cry herself.

Is he dyin'? Emma ignored her, staring at Jeb as though he'd slapped her. Emma's spun around, her face hard and dark. You go on and sleep in your own bed tonight. Old Jeb ran his hands through his gray hair. It just don't look like he's gonna spring back. Hetfield, either trying to figure out some other way to help him or some way to ease his passing.

Slaid moved in and let out a small snort. He'll be dead by morning.

DIALECT TALES

What in hell's gotten into you? Better with us than in the ground with him. You ain't even been around in days nor pitched in to keep this boy breathin'. If he passes it'll go to Em who ain't slept in days trying to save him. You damn fool. Go on to the bunkhouse. We'll take care of this boy. But if'n we need your help diggin' a grave tomorrow, you best do it without any lip.

Florabel dashed around the corner from where she'd been lurking and crouched in the shadows. She saw Slaid come out and she prayed he wouldn't see her. Once she heard the screen door slam in the night, she released a puffed breath of relief and crept back to the sick-room door.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she continued her quiet vigil from the hall. Jeb sighed. His voice was quiet and sad. We'd be doin' him a mercy, Em. Look at him. He's sufferin' somethin' terrible. Florabel heard her mother's seething intake of breath. She gave Jeb the kind of look Florabel knew better than to disobey. Her mama didn't answer him. She turned and stripped the covers off Mr. Hetfield, leaving him lying in nothing but his under-shorts.

A tremor ran through him in from the cold and he let out a washboard, rumbling groan. Emma went to the wardrobe and rooted through it. Old Jeb tried to reason with her. You's exhausted and you done your share. Now let this poor boy go. Even if he was to live, he won't have no sense left, more'n likely. The fits and fever has surely balled up his head beyond repair. Emma stepped back from the wardrobe holding two large fans. Shame on yuh, Jeb. I ain't a-givin' up. You fussed at Florabel—gave her a right talkin' to because she was gittin' too attached.

But you's doin' the same thing. You don't even know this boy, Emma. Emma released an angry huff and threw a rag into the bucket, pulling it out laden and dripping with water. She let the water slosh over the man's arms, chest and legs. It pooled on his belly and trickled down his sides, wetting the bed beneath him. She lifted his legs and cooled the undersides of his thighs and wrung out the rag out a couple of times over his shorts, saturating the material. She immodestly placed sopping cloths in those private creases where his inner thighs met his groin.

Florabel watched her wet the boy's hair and wrap a cold cloth around his neck. The whole time her mama's lips were set, thin and tight with defiance and determination. She only paused when the man's throat hitched involuntarily and he wheezed out a quick, spiked wail. Each time his insensible protests became too loud or too rapid, she'd stop and murmur in his ear, whispering wordless encouragement.

Despite the man's frightful state, he calmed when her mama's soothing hands caressed him. Once quieted, Emma stood back and started to fan him. She looked daggers at Old Jeb until he joined in, too. Only then did she speak. The man below her gasped and writhed in his delirium. I will. But it ain't him I'm worried about. With everything this past year we been put through, Jeb…I cain't…" She batted a tear away as it escaped her eye, a poignant betrayal of her cool, stolid expression. How will I ever convince her the world's a good place to be if'n all she knows is this?

Dust and death and then more dust on top of it. If'n he dies, how can my baby daughter ever understand that sometimes people git better? That God and Jesus is merciful and just? That sometimes you win an' things turn out right? My daughter needs to win, just this once. I ain't doin' it for him. I'm doin' it for my child.

I'm doin' it for me. I cain't take a world so gray and dead, Jeb. I cain't. When I breathe, all I taste is dust, and I feel like I'm chokin' on it. So you keep fannin' old man, and don't you stop until his fever is broke—one way or the other. Out in the hall, Florabel curled in on herself.

Warm tears dripped off her chin and onto the cold, dark floor. Sleep closed in despite everything, and Jeb's voice sounded far away.


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I ain't goin' nowheres. You's a terrible determined woman. The last thing Florabel heard was her mother speaking in that tone of voice that always made sure you did as you were told. Just so long as you keep them ribs bound up tight for a couple weeks at least. But I'm getting there. My aunt and uncle are helping me. In fact, as I recall Jesse Gibson remembered everything the day he got home and saw his little girl.

Dust Devils: This Morning I am Born Again (Chapter 4) - Once In, Never Out

The rest of him is healing just fine, now. The boy'll be ready to defend his title this summer. Leastwise that's what we've found with the others. Doc bobbed his head. Remember, everyone has come around eventually within a few weeks. If he don't bounce back, you just bring him on in and we'll see if we can't get him referred to a specialist. But like I said, we ain't found any sound medical explanation for it, so just keep talkin' to him.

Aside from Matt's crazy notions of ghosts, I'm thinking it's all just stress. Get rest and things'll sort themselves out, I'm betting. Abby will get started on your release forms, here, and she'll bring them on in for you folks. Doc left them to help Sam get ready. The boy rose from where he'd been sitting on the side of the bed. He teetered as he found his center. Ellen stepped over to the closet and tossed the plastic bag with Sam's personal items to Bobby. Y'spent enough time there, eatin' me out of house and home.

We still need to find Dean, first. Trust me, it ain't right that he's not here. Something's happened. He would never leave you alone. Ellen nodded. He called me frantic with worry. Something's definitely wrong if he ain't here. Their words sparked a rapid flash of images that threw the young hunter off balance, and he lost his grip on the plastic clothes bag.

Both Bobby and Ellen lunged for him. They half walked, half dragged him back to the bed. Ellen rubbed circles on his back and traced her fingers through his hair. Sam rubbed his temples with shaky fingers, sucking air as fast as he could. I don't remember it happening, but I think they're memories.

He was bleeding, gripping his shoulder. He—he punched me. What else did you see? I was trying to hold on to him. So much wind. It's gone. Damn it. You did good. I just can't…I just can't grab hold of it through that dark… thing. This is so frustrating. We'll get a room, let you get some rest and then we'll start fresh," Bobby said. He caught the bag upside down and the small, leather strap fell onto the bed.

Lightnin' Hopkins: His Life and Blues

Sam picked it up, focusing on it. Fingering the small, horned amulet, Sam felt a sudden, nauseous gravitational pull, as though he had slipped right over the highest peak of a rollercoaster. The world tilted as an avalanche of images assaulted him: A small boy opening a newspaper-wrapped package on Christmas. A young man with a lopsided grin bent over a pool table.


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The same man, dragging Sam from a fire where someone…his girlfriend… his girlfriend Jess …burned on the ceiling. Another twist in the track and his memory catapulted him in another direction. Dean in the car, belting out songs off key. Dean in the Impala. Dean's Impala. Dean cleaning his weapons. Dean standing broken and blank as they watched their father's corpse burn. The track fell away and he was free-falling now. No longer impersonal playbacks, the images blossomed into full memories. He felt bloated and pregnant with them: Dean punching him when he'd tried to warn him about Gordon.

Dean weeping on the side of the road somewhere in the mountains, riddled with guilt for merely being alive. It took several moments before he heard anything beyond the buzzing in his head as memory after memory crashed over him. In and out," were the first words that penetrated. He folded in on himself, disoriented and nauseous. Bobby's hand gripped his, squeezing. Open up. Sam snatched a lungful of air and steadied himself. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on the bed in a pool of sunlight. Bobby and Ellen stood over him, worried and expectant. Sam looked at the amulet dangling in his fingers, shut his eyes and took another greedy breath.

He swallowed and nodded. He flung out a hand, fisting Bobby's collar. I tried. But we fell and…" Sam closed his eyes against the memory. Continue to Chapter 5. Log in No account? Create an account. Remember me. Facebook Twitter Google. Tags angels bobby singer caleb dean winchester ellen harvelle hurt!

Previous Share Next. You remember now? Just hang in there," Ellen said. Old Jeb sighed real sad and sorrowful. Big grave! So, I'm good to go, then? Things comin' back all right? What do you remember? What happened to Dean? It knew him. Loved the revelation at the end - though I was beginning to realize that "it" was snatching people deliberately And I'm thinking it's Slaid, but part of me thinks that's too easy It's been too long since I've so anxiously awaited someone to post the next chapter of a fic Thank you so, so much for this!

Reply Thread Link. Wow, thank you for that! I really appreciate it. Whoever it is that is behind this Slaid or not Such shenanigans will not stand! So says I and a million Dean-girls! Reply Parent Thread Link. Holy crap. What a fabulous set of opening chapters. I'm always drawn to anything set in the Dust Bowl years although as much dust as we're still getting, "Dust Bowl years" may soon be "now" , and this is so well done.

Gahhh, poor Dean. Not a good time or place to be ill, and certainly not with an infected gunshot wound. Saaaaaaaaaaaaammmy, gotta find Dean! Except -- ugh, HOW? Looking forward to more! I know right?! Although I was by no means an expert on the era, I was fascinated by it. I'm a huge Steinbeck fangirl, and I loved shows like "Carnivale ", so it was really tempting to place a Winchester in that world. And yeah, definitely not the place where you want to be sick with an infection, but I had fun looking up homeopathy of that period and learning how they dealt with those ailments.

And I'm not going to lie It's so easy to get that stuff all wrong. Much easier to slap a poultice on someone and hope for the best. Thanks so very much for the comment, Janissa, I truly appreciate it so dadgum much! Have you read The Worst Hard Time? It's excellent. I did! That was the 1 book I referred to while writing this story. My copy is definitely well worn now.

Gosh, I am really impressed that so many people here have read that book. My folks grew up in the Dust Bowl years in Texas.

DIALECT TALES

And it's still so dusty, and I dunno, we ALL read it when it came out. It fascinates me, repels me, horrifies me, etc. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book. What if you're five years old and your father's parting advice is to live life in the lion's mouth? When Robert begins a nervous romance with an aspiring folksinger named Anna, he embarks on a seminal journey that tests his loyalty to the circus and ultimately leads him to the outskirts of the Greenwich Village folk scene and The Cafe Flame. Although it is not entirely to her liking, grief-stricken Satha, a dark-skinned woman from a poor Theseni clan weds young Loic, the wealthy Doreni son of the king's First Captain.

Loic, graced with ability to see into the hearts and minds of others, begins to help Satha overcome her sorrows. Despite coming from different tribes, they begin to forge a life together. But when Satha's own compassion is used against her and a treacherous enemy contrives to dishonor her in Loic's absence, Loic's love turns to anger and disgust.

Embittered, Loic must still avenge his honor and Satha's and he sets out on a journey that brings despair as well as spiritual discovery. Battling him are the Arkhai, the spirits of the land who know his quest will lead him toward the God whom they have usurped. After his departure, Satha is kidnapped, sold into slavery and learns, first hand, how cruel the pioneering Angleni tribe can be.

Both face great hardship, danger and anguish apart, but with the Creator's aid there remains hope they will be reunited and heal the love the world has torn asunder. This exciting book focuses on the rise and fall of the Antichrist during the Great Tribulation. A unique feature of this book is that it features the opinions of 22 Bible prophecy experts who were interviewed by Dr. Reagan regarding key questions about the Antichrist, such as: Will he be a Jew or a Gentile?