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Waylon Maverick

Wide open as a case knife.

0 · 74 views · located in Edenholle, Arizona

a character in “HELLS HALF ACRE”, as played by SHOVELHEAD



So begins...

Waylon Maverick's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Waylon Maverick Character Portrait: Delilah Cambell Character Portrait: Miles Abernathy
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0.00 INK

ImageDelilah lost interest in the festival quickly, screaming children had always been the most effective birth control to her. That and the literal implant that acted as a spermicide in her uterus. It wasn’t that she hated children, they just stressed her the fuck out. They broke things and smeared a sticky medley of candy residue and grime over everything they touched. The fathers who had been dragged along had all washed up together at the edge of the crowd, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, talking shit. Delilah recognized their faces, there weren't many she didn’t recognize around here. They watched her as she approached, eyes hungry. The doe and the hyenas.

“Afternoon there, Sister Lila.” One of them said with a tip of his hat, some of the others chuckling under their breath. They’d each seen her in all sorts of positions, she could see them already contorting her body in their mind to their desire. She walked over to the cooler wordlessly, grabbing a beer and daring one of them to protest. The one who called out to her offered her the rest of his cigarette to which she obliged.

“Festival not your kind of fun?” The man asked as he lit another cigarette, giving Lila a wink. Lila took a deep drink from the beer followed by a long drag, her stare slicing right through him.

“Chris, you don’t tip well enough for me to entertain you if I don’t have to. Can we stop pretending like you’re funny and just enjoy a fucking beer?” Lila looked away from him when she spoke, ashing her cigarette to add emphasis to her words. The others bursted into laughter, one of them clapping his hand on Chris’s back with a dull thwack. Chris’s expression only soured for a moment, quickly passing when he threw back the remainder of his beer and reached for a new one.

“Anyone going into town soon?” Lila asked after a moment, providing no more context than that. Her voice was soft but demanding, winds that could move mountains. It had always been her most marketable feature, especially to those who enjoyed a bit of degradation to reach euphoria. “Don’t all jump at once, come on.”

She didn’t wait to see who was following, throwing back the last of her beer and dropping the empty tin can on the ground. She’d probably end up being the one doing the clean up afterwards anyways. The grass crunched beneath their feet as they walked back towards the lot, most of the vegetation dead and decaying. It always kind of seemed that way around here.

“Do I get anything for my charity to the church?”

“Chris, the fact that I let you be within five feet of me without payment is charity.” Lila put her cigarette out, hopping into the cabin of his truck. He threw a pack of marlboro red in the cup holder as he got behind the wheel. Lila grabbed the pack and lit another, one of her legs bent to lean against the door slipping the hem of her dress past her silken thighs. Knew just how much to give to keep them bending over backwards to please her.

“Where ya headed to?” He asked as he shifted from park, doing his best to keep his eyes behind as he reversed and not on her thighs.

“Just drop me at Biscuits,” She rolled down her window, hanging out her hand so that the smoke didn’t linger. All too aware of his gaze, Lila shifted to elongate her features. Knew the more men desired her the more money she made. It was all business to her. Lila never cared for men. They were usually too frail, too simple for her taste. Not to say some of them weren’t pretty. Father Friday and his hubby were proof enough of that. Most of them were just terribly disappointing, so Lila just held no standards for them anymore. Can’t be disappointed if you have no expectations.

Chris knew better than to push his limits. Knew if he paid the piper he’d have his turn to do whatever he wanted and more to her. Maybe that’s why he seemed to enjoy her cruelty, made it more satisfying when he could buy her time. She didn’t even say bye when he dropped her off, just tucked a cigarette behind her ear beneath her habit and hopped out - not so much as a thank you before walking away.

There were a few places that weren’t such a hike back to the church where Lila could have gone, but she didn’t want to risk crossing Mother Constance’s path. Lila was a veteran among the other workers, but it only made Constance tougher on her. Lila had never been the type to bend to discipline so there’d been some animosity that had grown over the years. Besides, they had a mean cherry pie.

There’s only one seat left at the corner, Lila recognizes Old Man Lou sitting in one. Lila smiles as she takes a seat beside him. Lou was one of the only men in Edenholle that weren’t a complete shitshow, though he was more of a relic to simpler times than anything else. He looks back to his paper after giving her a nod of acknowledgement, murmuring a “Sister Lila”.

She looks around for Waylon, figuring she’s have a cherry pie and coffee incoming any minute because Lila would never leave Biscuits without either. The place was one of the few places that drew new faces, a rare place of respite in this wasteland. She would be remiss if she didn’t take a moment to seek potential new clientele, even if Lila sought respite from the ongoing facade she perpetuated to facilitate her income. It grew more and more difficult to turn off. There wasn’t much else to hold onto anymore.

When she noticed the woman beside her, it took Lila a moment to reason why she hadn’t seen her sooner. While Edenholle had a strange pool of genetics that had led to an extraordinarily rare collection of gorgeous faces, this woman was something else. The soft edges around her eyes were familiar, the barriers blurred but Lila could recognize the walls around them. Plenty of new people passed through here, few looked like her, fewer stuck around.

There was already an empty mug at her place setting, Lila grabbing Lou’s canter of coffee and pouring herself a mug before he could protest - not that he would. In a way they all felt like family, this little town. Lila was the bothersome little sister that took what she wanted and apologized with a wink. Looks over at the blonde beside her as she mixes in a sugar and two creams into her coffee, her spoon clinking against the porcelain.

“Blessed day,” Lila says to the woman after a moment, giving her a warm smile; feels a sharp warmth when the woman looks up at her, realizes how blue her eyes are. The religious garb always gave Lila confidence when talking to strangers. People just were more likely to feel a sense of obligation to the cloth. “Are you in town for the festival at the Church?”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Waylon Maverick Character Portrait: Everleigh Sage Character Portrait: Gemini Yazzie Character Portrait: Constance Graves Character Portrait: Delilah Cambell Character Portrait: Rafael Serdán-Reyes
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“you can all go to hell,” is a goodbye charm off of pout chapped lips, an exit wound of sorts. miss ruthie knows this one real well. always been a fan of the dreamers, the young ones - the runaways. the type to build a tall tale out of just a year in her old town, then without realizing, become the very fiber of what keeps the place knitted together. those beautiful and foolish little things… seen for their desires and consequently, those desires’ end.

she’s spun it back in her head a dozen times with a laugh, tapping a smoke loose from the box when she’s alone and a clock out is far from reach. but she’s not quite by herself. it’s early, and her usuals need their coffee for a long day of fence-post-pickin’ and pancake flippin’.

Image“i’m goin’ to texas.” ruthie parrots, tossing a complimentary pack of big red in a plastic shopping bag for the mud river blonde across from her register. her customer gives a knowing, happy nod. “hey, waylon, darlin’?

“yeah miss ruthie?”
“you let me know when you got your ticket and your bag packed, i reckon i’d like to see a town other than edenholle one day, too.” she says with a slightly nervous smack of her lips.
“i’m sure you’ll beat me to it.” waylon’s got a dizzy grin on.
“then i’ll be askin’ you to put me in your luggage.”
“home is where the heart is.” ruthie eyes glisten with a hint of longing, and she don’t blink at the bittersweetness.

one day, maybe a long time ago, she was on the other side of the counter. plotting a great escape with someone old enough to be her grandparent, meaning every word. piled high in sun bleached curls, pockets lined with old breakfast order tabs and a couple of crumpled bucks. “yeah, just gotta’ figure out where my heart is, i guess.” waylon shrugs. ruthie doesn’t tell her that it’s gonna’ be buried somewhere in the arizona desert, just like her.

waylon’s gone without another goodbye, just a wave and a smile in the wind. she’s almost late and tripping over herself by the time biscuits swallows her whole once again.

first on her mind is old harry’s muddy pot of coffee, then the jar of blueberry preserves they only used on his flapjacks, then of course the cherry - that’d be for the pie made on account of lila’s presence, fresh each time. waylon ties herself into the grind with an apron’s bow and phone wire tangled up her arm. the receiver, tucked between her cheek and shoulder, slides threateningly as she grapples for a pencil and paper. but she never drops a thing. never has.

butter baked crust still steams on a plate, promised to that snow white lookin’ woman in the corner. waylon makes it a point to apology for any delay, hair out of dress code, spilling over her ear and into her eyes.

“got any plans for halloween, ladies?”


the clock tick cadence of hips on this stretch of town is never anything new. but never any less interesting to watch. pitted between the eyes of a man and his brain are all cravings and trespasses that don’t make it to the mouth or hands. gemini peers down at his, then, deep-lined with old engine dirt and fissures. his cigarette gets a dry pull tucked between his teeth. a damp rag smacks the thigh of some old denim, hardly a sign of surrender, but he might be gettin’ close. there’s children screaming and laughing every which way — sending shakers and movers scattering like roaches for a less-lit street. respect for the innocent, here exists - at least for a grace period. a man ought to try to mind mouth and his inhibitions, or lack thereof.

he lifts his gaze to the cat making her ninth-life strut good and worth it, right in his direction, keen to multiply her luck like a gambler with nothing to lose. he always liked a woman who carried herself in such a way; could roll some dice and not give a rat’s ass when it shook out to her doom. she’s talkin’ dates and running knock off leather over her manicure in a slow draw. the gun might as well be smoking already and she don’t even know it or care. that’s everleigh.

“huh.” the grunt from his throat kicks ash into the air. a thumb nail brays over his stubble when he takes another drag of cancer, “didn’t know trick or treatin’ and toys for tots was your bag, ev, let alone your idea of a date night.” it translates: yeah, you’re putting on a real good one.

they exchange shit eating grins, old friends. two folks who don’t know whether they fall on antagonist or protagonist but make do just fine in the middle. there’s some gritty repute in it where they meet, have met, and will meet again. she’d run with the wolves for a while. and that was a-okay with a man like gem. a man who knew this one? right here?

she could handle her own.

he saves the compliments for the chapel matron who appears in everleigh’s shadow, something that feels close to an omen when it should be the contrary. his throat cracks downward and he hesitates on a reply. her hands fold politely in the front of her. never skirting the length of her arms or neck in a vibration of language that boasted in the sun. maybe, constance only did that in the dark. or not at all.

“you wanna’ see me there, connie?” he gives her a shifty wink, diverting his attention to an old pasture colored ford splitting the tide of halloween a little too fast to be local. the old handkerchief is relinquished in a slap over his shoulder, “be an honor to be in the presence of such well dressed faith, but ball’s in your court.” giving her a hard time wouldn’t be half as much fun if she wasn’t such good friends with the bible. some day, he’d like to know a little more about her, than just that. where her mind rested when it was off duty.

his half-proposition is severed by a mazlatan mess of noise and he can’t help but chuff ’n get back to work. “what a strange fuckin’ town.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Waylon Maverick Character Portrait: Delilah Cambell Character Portrait: Miles Abernathy
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0.25 INK

There ain’t nothing like a small town chicken fried steak. It’s been a long time since Miles has had one that hadn’t come outta a freezer, and it’s so damn good she almost doesn’t notice the seat next to her getting spun around. Least till the girl talks, and she raises her eyes.

“Blessed day,” she says, and Miles coulda smelled the childhood trauma on her even if she'd been a mile away. The words a weird, but once she manages to take in what the girl is wearing, they make more sense - she can't say she's surprised to find a religious chick in a place small as this, but something about it doesn't quite fit.

It's hard to stop looking though, because this girl - this girl looks like an honest to God doll. The kind of jawline that could only be made out of porcelain, a button nose and plump lips and eyes that someone, somewhere, is probably writing poetry about. If she's from here, it's some kinda twisted fate. If she's not ... well.

“Passing through,” Miles answers, though she has a feeling that just like the older man, this girl knows that too. She could tell by the sign that Endenholle wasn't the kind of place people stuck around if there blood wasn't in it. They get interrupted before she can say much else, by the smell of fresh cherry pie and a waitress who looks frazzled but friendly. Country, born and raised. All spilling southern apologies.

Miles tilts her head towards the pretty thing sitting next to her. “This one was just telling me about the Church. Anything interestin’?”

Her tone says she's not religious - or maybe she was, once, but God done did her dirty and she doesn't have a taste for the bible any more. But her expression says she doesn't have anywhere better to be, either. She could hit the road again, sure, but it was Halloween after all.