No town would have him, for an alphabet of misdeeds preceded his decency. On his flesh, searing irons forever inscribed 'V' for vagabond, 'D' for deserter, 'S' for slave, 'B' for blasphemer. Wesley never felt remorse for exercising his freedoms, though the repeated brandings convinced him to carry a mote of regret.
His back ribbed with whip runs and his face flecked with knife nicks, Wesley still recognized himself. And though he could not imagine what methods delivered the majority of his scars (perhaps he was swathed in incandescent chickenwire or honey-glazed to feed fireants), he still recognized himself.
On his left temple he bore another letter whose corresponding crime Wesley never learned. Between all the seasoned scoundrels and pedantic lawmen he encountered during his interminable vagrancy, none could decipher its significance.
A Texan undertaker made known, 'Yeasayer. No one likes an optimist.'
A scowling Chihuahuan jailer muttered, 'Yanqui.'
'Yap too much.' noted the chain gang leader.
A Californian prospector squealed, 'Yuh--yah--yahooooooooooooowieeeee!' before falling off his barstool.
A sentimental whore supposed, 'Y is for yesterday, so you never forget what you did.'
The torpid Yuma winds made no effort to cover Wesley's tracks. Every tiresome stride remained plotted in the dunes, tracing a disparaging retrogression into the very very distant horizon. There he could see his origin: the last town that had evicted him. Footprints quantified the distance he marched, dispelling any misconceptions of his progress. Wesley wished for a sandstorm or, when desperate, cataracts, but everything remained unequivocally clear.
He littered despair like the preemptive breadcrumbs of someone planning to become lost. He sometimes took relief in reveries that he may one day step into his first footsteps, inadvertently completing some unexpected circle,
never feeling obligated to walk those steps again. Vultures loomed between Wesley and the sun, pausing to judge his resemblance to carrion. Each morbid interruption of daylight returned his focus from the diversion of daydreaming to the necessity of marching.
He drifted through seas of sand he could not drink, through forests of cacti that provided no refuge. He marched directly towards where ever he intuited the next town may lay, detoured only when the regal Saguaros stood stubbornly in his path. 'They never gotta move a sister's whisker,' Wesley admired, and, 'How wrong-made I am for this desert,' Wesley admitted. When Wesley sweat or cried, he suspected the cacti somehow pocketed his moisture.
He began to resent that when alone in the desert he was not of his own belonging. When the town did not want him, he was cast into the desert. Wesley did not know where to go when even the badlands refused him. Sand, sand, sand, and sand. At least all the branding irons were gone, all his indictments were gone, all the naysayers were gone. When offered nothing, Wesley searched for anything. Under his microscopy, no trivia went unexamined in his search for something.
From the sand smiled a wee ivory sliver. Wesley gingerly extracted the wishbone; so dainty and delicate, it must be a quail's. Though he didn't know why it seemed familiar, Wesley was happy to find anything at all.
His back ribbed with whip runs and his face flecked with knife nicks, Wesley still recognized himself. And though he could not imagine what methods delivered the majority of his scars (perhaps he was swathed in incandescent chickenwire or honey-glazed to feed fireants), he still recognized himself.
On his left temple he bore another letter whose corresponding crime Wesley never learned. Between all the seasoned scoundrels and pedantic lawmen he encountered during his interminable vagrancy, none could decipher its significance.
A Texan undertaker made known, 'Yeasayer. No one likes an optimist.'
A scowling Chihuahuan jailer muttered, 'Yanqui.'
'Yap too much.' noted the chain gang leader.
A Californian prospector squealed, 'Yuh--yah--yahooooooooooooowieeeee!' before falling off his barstool.
A sentimental whore supposed, 'Y is for yesterday, so you never forget what you did.'
The torpid Yuma winds made no effort to cover Wesley's tracks. Every tiresome stride remained plotted in the dunes, tracing a disparaging retrogression into the very very distant horizon. There he could see his origin: the last town that had evicted him. Footprints quantified the distance he marched, dispelling any misconceptions of his progress. Wesley wished for a sandstorm or, when desperate, cataracts, but everything remained unequivocally clear.
He littered despair like the preemptive breadcrumbs of someone planning to become lost. He sometimes took relief in reveries that he may one day step into his first footsteps, inadvertently completing some unexpected circle,
never feeling obligated to walk those steps again. Vultures loomed between Wesley and the sun, pausing to judge his resemblance to carrion. Each morbid interruption of daylight returned his focus from the diversion of daydreaming to the necessity of marching.
He drifted through seas of sand he could not drink, through forests of cacti that provided no refuge. He marched directly towards where ever he intuited the next town may lay, detoured only when the regal Saguaros stood stubbornly in his path. 'They never gotta move a sister's whisker,' Wesley admired, and, 'How wrong-made I am for this desert,' Wesley admitted. When Wesley sweat or cried, he suspected the cacti somehow pocketed his moisture.
He began to resent that when alone in the desert he was not of his own belonging. When the town did not want him, he was cast into the desert. Wesley did not know where to go when even the badlands refused him. Sand, sand, sand, and sand. At least all the branding irons were gone, all his indictments were gone, all the naysayers were gone. When offered nothing, Wesley searched for anything. Under his microscopy, no trivia went unexamined in his search for something.
From the sand smiled a wee ivory sliver. Wesley gingerly extracted the wishbone; so dainty and delicate, it must be a quail's. Though he didn't know why it seemed familiar, Wesley was happy to find anything at all.
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