The Tattered Page

THE END.

As I’ve said before, those are the two best words to write. When going through the various levels of drafting hell, reaching those final words often feels like a faraway finish line. But now having written them twice as I gleefully finished the manuscript of what will be Beneath the Farlight Sky, they carry even more weight, which has been lifted. For now.

Anyway, I teased the possibility of a sample chapter on socials, and here it is. The start of our protagonist’s adventure 🙂

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Chapter 1

A Changeover

Thornville, Illinois, 1914.

The hefty old Western Star barreled westward from Bloomington; its heavy chugs having lulled twenty-one-year-old Johnny Jennings to sleep. Alone in his cabin, he was never the type to nod off on trains, but for some reason this morning, he was out like a light.

Memories from his family farm came to his dozing mind. “Listen son,” his father had said. “There are two types of people who leave home: those running toward something, and those who are running from something.”

Running wasn’t new to Johnny; it was one of his strengths, in fact – on the basepaths, that is.

A sudden jolt from underneath knocked his head against the window, rousing him.

“Shit.”

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, wrestling a sleepy recollection of running through long, green fields, afraid to stop, like he was being chased. Threatened. Something was after him, terrorizing him, just a step behind.

Must have been that dream again. 

He inhaled deeply, relieved to be free of its unsettling clutches. He looked around in the empty car, then sat up slowly, wondering how long he’d been out on the short journey. He pulled out his pocket watch and smiled. Right on time.

The train squealed to a stop at 12:01 PM at Thornville Station. Johnny, known most often by his initials since he was a toddler, hopped out through a door nearly as wide as his grin. What happened during his nap on the train ride was a persistent nightmare, as regular as clockwork. Playing baseball was his actual dream.

Signing a semi-pro contract two years back was the happiest day of his life. All the big league scouts missed out on the talented infielder when he was in high school, and again during his first year of pro ball. But he had a renewed determination to make sure that didn’t happen this time.

Johnny’s initial foray into the lower leagues of professional baseball wasn’t remarkable.

He’d had a decent rookie season with the Stubbtown Stars in northwest Iowa, but a cartilage injury in his right knee claimed his second year. Probably thinking he wasn’t worth the risk, Stubbtown sold his contract during the winter to his new team, the Thornville Titans in the lesser-known West Plains League.

But he put his old injury, his old team and his old contract behind him for good the moment he stepped off the train. With a healthy knee and a promising new start, JJ was ready to make the most of his situation. The Midwest had long been a hotbed of baseball talent, and he was more than ready to make his mark in Thornville and move up.

 Growing up just a couple hours northeast of Thornville on the fringes of the twin towns of Bloomington and Normal, Illinois, he’d always had his mind and heart set on playing in the major leagues. He believed one good season here in familiar cornland could do it. Teams in the majors were always able to use a steady-hitting, solid defender who could run.

People around here knew this team, he’d been told in one of his telegrams, and word travels fast. The scouts would find him here – of course they would, he believed, and his play would impress them. He felt he had something to prove. JJ was also looking forward to playing closer to home. Though he’d never actually been to Thornville, he’d at least heard of it, which is more than he could say about his previous team and town. 

Stubbtown, Iowa was a totally foreign place to him. It wasn’t like most small towns he’d been to. It was dingy. Stuffy. Crowded and unfriendly. He never really felt comfortable there, even before they gave up on him. A ballplayer’s life never hinged on the finer things in life, whatever those might be, especially at the semi-pro level. But it did require a routine. He could never settle into one in Stubbtown. There were oddly timed wake-up calls, unsteady work schedules at the fertilizer plant, inconsistent practice days, and no place to unwind. Living there felt like a chore. Then, despite his youth and talent, they just cast him aside at age 20 as if he were really 40 and long past his prime.

Signing a contract with Thornville gave him a new mission, and it was his chance to show everyone he was more than capable. He just needed to shake the rust off from missing a whole season and find his groove.

He gripped his duffel bag extra tight as he stood to deboard. Once I get my timing back, I’ll be outa here like shit through a goose. Class B next season, maybe the Three-I League. If I’m good enough, maybe right to the new AA class. I’ll be good enough. I’ll get my shot.

But all that was future JJ’s problem. He had to get through now, first.

His bright smile faded when he was the only person who got off the train.

Was he the only one on board?

The wooden beams creaked under his weight as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. Dense fog consumed the empty platform. It was a bad mist; so thick he could taste it on his tongue. The air reeked of oil and wood and felt soupy against his face. Locks of dark brown hair clung to his damp forehead as he snatched his suitcase and stepped toward the small station house ahead. It was quiet. Not even the rustling of the breeze could be heard.

He looked about as much as the swirling mist would allow, wondering where everyone – anyone – was. Then he stopped. JJ didn’t expect any fanfare upon his arrival, but the utter stillness of the station unnerved him. He waited there, standing still as a stone, unsure of what to do.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps clapped out along the wooden beams, filling the silence.

The steps were slow. Calculating. And getting closer.

“Jennings?” a gravelly voice called out from behind him. Where had he come from? Was he there all along? Or had he been on the other side of the tracks?

JJ squinted in the voice’s direction, trying to peer through the swirling gray sheen. “Um, who wants to know?”

Click.

Click.

A tall, husky man with a belly that betrayed both age and ale approached from out of the fog. He wore a bowler hat low over his eyes. Thinning white hair draped down below his ears. He kept one hand buried in his coat pocket.

With the other, he pointed a pistol at JJ’s head.

JJ dropped his bags and threw both hands in the air.

“Sir!”

The old man stepped closer. He tilted his head back, wearing a frown so severely on his cracked, stubbly face that it looked like he was smiling upside-down. “Eddie Birdbooth. Titans’ manager. Some call me ‘Birdie.’ Most call me Eddie. Welcome to ‘ol Thorn, kid.”

He kept the gun pointed straight at him.

JJ took a step back, shaking his hands in the air, emphasizing he was no threat.

“Um, Mr. Birdbooth, sir, is the gun necessary?”

Eddie squinted hard at JJ. “Huh?” Then he regarded his gun. “Well, shit.” He clicked something on the gun and tucked it into his pocket.

“Take it easy, will ya, kid? Can’t be too careful around here. Especially with little snot-nosed farm pukes like you lookin’ for a gas. We get them stopping through from time to time on their way to Kansas City, or Omaha, or who knows where else. Sometimes they stir up trouble while they’re here.”

He reached out with a thick, age-spotted hand. “But you don’t seem the sort, do you?”

JJ let out a sigh of relief. “Good to meet you, Birdie. Everyone calls me—”

The old man’s grip tightened like a vise as he leaned in and looked JJ in his wincing eyes. “Hey. I didn’t say you could call me that.”

“—JJ,” he finished through gritted teeth.

Eddie eyed him a beat longer, then abruptly disengaged his hand from JJ’s as if disgusted with it. “Got you fixed up out at the farmhouse with some of the other boys. Let’s go.”

They walked through the turnstile gate and stepped onto a wide cobblestone road, lined on either side with neck-high hedges. Eddie pointed into the thick fog dead ahead of them. JJ couldn’t see a thing through the enshrouding mass. “Thornville Park and the rest of town are just a few blocks south of here this way.”

They soon came across an unmarked intersection, with the side street stretching to the west, out into nowhere.

“Streets like this one lead into town and the couple of neighborhoods around here.” He cocked his head to the right. “The plant is just over there, too. They make parts for tractors and big metal bins for hog shit. It’s what Thornville is known for, I guess. It’s where most folks here work, but like I said, we’re going to use your hands at the farm.”

JJ nodded along.

Eddie thumbed the direction behind him. “Back northeast? Well, you might’ve seen on the way in there isn’t much up that way, except—”

Eddie suddenly fell silent. JJ kept walking alongside, waiting for him to finish. After several steps he lost his patience.

“Um, except what, Skipper?”

Eddie looked down as he walked. “Farlight.”

“I’m sorry?”

He glanced behind them and spoke in a hushed tone, as if worried someone was eavesdropping near the road. “Farlight is out there.”

JJ glanced around them, unsure what he meant. “What is—”

“There ain’t much to this place,” Eddie said, cutting him off again. “But it’s home. We keep quiet, don’t ask questions and do our jobs around here. You remember that, and you’ll be okay.”

“I gotcha, Skipper. You know, it sounds like where I grew up, not too far east of here, so—”

“Sure, kid. Now keep your skinny ass moving. They’re waiting for you.”