Archives for the Date April 5th, 2020

barcarole:Marguerite Duras, No More (trans. Richard Howard).

barcarole:Marguerite Duras, No More (trans. Richard Howard).

themaninthegreenshirt: “No dictatorship can tolerate jazz. It is…


“No dictatorship can tolerate jazz. It is the first sign of a return to freedom.”

Dave Brubeck, with Iola, Darius and Michael Brubeck, Roman Waschko, Eugene Wright and Joe Morello, Poland [1958]

you see a tiny sign planted in the ground. bending down to read, you just make out, in impossibly tiny script “a mundane clump of dirt; much beloved by god, like any other”

THE PROPOSAL:  Chapter 1


A/N:  This is a new fanfic that I’ve been tossing around in my brain and had started and deleted several times over.  Claire is 22 living on her own in Boston in the mid 1800′s.  She wants to move out of the city and is dazzled by the accounts of what she’s read of the frontier.  The problem?  She needs to find a way out of Boston.  

I’ve taken some (a LOT) of license with the setting.  I have tightened up the timeline from the time that the west was considered “Indian Territory” to the time that settlers arrived and were able to purchase land, and to the time where the railroad ran through the land.  I purposely don’t mention a specific place along the railroad.  You can make that up in your brain.  All cities (other than the large cities) are made up places.

This is a multi-chapter story.  I have no idea how long it will be.  I’ll just plug along on it (probably weekly) until the story is done.  Enjoy!


The train from Boston to the end of civilization, as she knew it, seemed to go on for an interminable amount of time.  Claire tried to stay busy.  She read, she walked the length of the train in between stops to stretch her legs, she napped, she visited with the elderly woman who sat next to her.  She sighed.  She fidgeted with the skirt of her traveling outfit.

What she really wanted was to reach her destination finally.  Traveling was not pleasant in this day and age.  She knew the forts on the frontier provided safe passage for the railroads and travelers, but that didn’t make her any less anxious until she reached her destination.

She had read accounts of “bloodthirsty savages killing innocent women and children” in the newspapers, which she mostly discounted as the newspapers tended to lean toward sensationalism.  But she had also read of the beauties of the prairie that stretched out as far as the eye could see.  She was not cut out for city life, that was for certain.  She had lived in Boston for 15 years with her Uncle Lamb, from the time she lost her parents when she was 5.  She didn’t remember much of her time with her parents.

She longed for a place where her eyes could roam the countryside and see the horizon.  She longed for a place where she could watch the sunset from a rocking chair on her front porch, surrounded by only the sound of crickets and frogs in the creek.  

She picked up her book again and continued to read the accounts from the pioneers settling on the western frontier.  She immersed herself into the peacefulness of the story that broadened her imagination.  She had never heard crickets chirp or frogs in the creek.  She only knew of life in the city.  People shouting, tradesmen selling their goods, dodging horses and wagons bustling down a busy street.  She couldn’t imagine “quiet”.  

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