Underappreciated: Robert Bresson

Robert Bresson

 

 

Today we are exploring one of my favorite directors from the 20th century. Don't feel bad if you haven't heard of him. He's not all that popular in America...why, I'll never know...

 

The first time anyone exposed me to the work of this delicious French auteur, my mind was blown before the film ended. I'd never seen anything so utterly compelling, suspenseful, taut (to the point of ripping fingernails off) and riveting...all while barely moving the camera!? Whaaaaa?

 

Don't get me wrong: when I came to the Bresson party, I thought I was a master of suspense. I'd seen it all. I'd studied the core directors to the brink of madness - yet somehow missed Bresson. While tension and drama are simple techniques to film - tackling these activities with little to no movement is oddly addictive. Rather than prattle on about how great I think Bresson is - let's dive right into the five films you need to see in order to say you've lived a full life:

 

 

 

 

5) "L'ARGENT" ("The Money"/1983): Bresson's final film, it is a nice entry point for anyone unfamiliar with the French style of filmmaking. This isn't the best example of why I love Bresson, but it stands as a bookend to one of the most remarkable lives ever lived.

This movie captures all the things that make Bresson films wonderful while delivering it in color - which seems to make some people much happier. The film stars one of my favorite French boys (Christian Patey) in a role that keeps your heart racing until the final moments. This film was awarded the Director's Prize at Cannes in 1983 as well as Best Director at the 1983 National Society Film Critics' Award, so it's good - see? While not the BEST film of Bresson's career - it's definitely worth seeing because it is how the master said goodbye to the world of moviemaking. Goodbye's are always worth watching. You only get one. Make it count.

 

 

 

4) "UN CONDAMNE A MORT S'EST ECHAPPE OU LE VENT SOUFFLE OU IL VEUT" ("A Man Escaped" / 1956): Now we're talking: you watch this - you will see...This is (in my opinion) the weakest of the films Bresson directed during his "classic period." Slapped right between some of his masterpieces, this film stands the test of time. You think, "Oh, a prison break movie? Blah!" and then you press play...the next thing you know, you're sweaty, having chest pains and react like a maniac

everytime someone knocks on your door. This black & white goodie starts with the opening titles, cinching the knot of tension until you are literally on your feet. Watching this slow, plodding, meticulous plot play out would seem to be something impeccably boring ... but it's the opposite. Don't get me wrong, I can speak volumes on the "prison break" film - but no matter how much I spoke, this film would always take the lead. Yes, it's even better than Bridge/Kwai and yeah...even Papillon. Don't believe me? I don't care. Go see this film. I dare you to watch 3 minutes and turn it off - you know why? Because it's impossible...no one can stop a Bresson film once it begins. Not even those wacky Nazis...

 

 

 

 

3) "MOUCHETTE" ("Mouchette" / 1967): Now...we're...talking!! Considered by many to be Bresson's masterpiece, "Mouchette" blew people's minds upon its initial release in the caustic late 60's. I'd describe this film, but I would never be able to do it justice. The gist is that it is a coming of age film. The difference between this and the other five hundred thousand coming of age films is that...it's just so damn tragic! The lead role went to Nadine Nortier, who's face alone can bleed tears from a statue. Watching this heroine learn about adulthood while being bullied by her alcoholic father, ridiculed by her peers and chastised by her teacher. Then her Mother dies and things get REALLY bad. This film is beautiful. Simply...beautiful. The acting is sublime, the dialogue will rip your guts out of your nostrils and you'll gasp at the final seconds (which I kindly supplied in this link...oh yeah, spoiler alert & stuff). Probably one of the best films about sorrow that's ever been made - you will absolutely need to view this in order to consider yourself a Bresson fan. But wait...there's more...

 

 

2) "AU HASARD BALTHAZAR" ("Balthazar, At Random" / 1966): Right before Mouchette, came Balthazar. Y'all...I can barely contain myself when I talk about this, so bear with me. Balthazar causes severe movie geekery to erupt. I apologize in advance. But...OH MY GAWD! This donkey ruined my life!!! Go ahead, laugh it up. You read the synopsis on the back of the DVD and think - what? Someone made a movie about a donkey? There MUST be more to it than that...but no, it's 90 minutes of IMPECCABLE donkey-ness. You've never seen anything like this. The ultimate amount of tears you'll shed...well, let's call this one a "three hankie" film. This donkey, Balthazar, is sold, traded, found, lost and hunted all while muddling through life in rural France. The symbolism is deep. According to James Quandt, this "brief, elliptical tale about the life and death of a donkey" has exquisite renderings of pain and abasement" and "compendiums of cruelty" that tell a powerful spiritual message. Be prepared to dig into this one - because you'll find loads to go on. The donkey, to me - is a symbol for man. I don't know. I've seen it 100x and still really just love this damn donkey. I can't talk about the ending. I just can't...

 

 

 

 

1) "PICKPOCKET" (1959): And this ... is simply perfection on film. What is this? Is it a crime thriller? Is it a symbolic tale of man's existential woes? Is it a romance? Is it a murder mystery? What the hell IS this?

Answer: It's fabulousness. This movie beats the ass of Hitchcock...beats it hard. Filmed at the beginning of Bresson's power years, this ballet is unveiled as you watch a (dazzlingly handsome) Martin LaSalle go about his life as a pickpocket. He trains his fingers. He digs in pockets. He glares at people on the subway. He walks. He smokes like a boss. He stands in doorways and stares...but the end result is possibly one of the most poetic and visually alarming films of the 50's/60's. I have watched this film hundreds of times and it remains a classic. The slow, steady pace as you watch this character fall apart is insanely addictive. I realize other critics would beat me with a stick for placing this film above Mouchette & Balthazar - but to me, it's the best.

 

 

That ends today's trip back in time. Take the rest of your day to go enjoy a fine old French film. Um...that wasn't a request as much as an order. Okay see - you're still here reading...stop already! Don't you listen? Okay, I'll help...click this to help you on your way...



Underappreciated: Lillian Gish

This week I shall begin unveiling sections of my latest "serial" short story entitled INCOMPLETE (The Seven Steps). While muddling around with the editor over what I can and cannot say to the world - I've decided to kill some time with an ongoing project that hasn't yet made it's debut here on my legendary, world-famous, award-winning, counter-cultural blog explosion!

Lillian Gish

 



Let us begin our trip backward in time with one of my favorite unappreciated gems from the silent era: Lillian Gish, once donned "The First Lady of American Cinema," she's now practically forgotten.

The purpose of these entries will be to enhance and expose film fans to movies they would not simply come across through basic study. If anyone chooses to review the films listed (in any of the "Unappreciated" series) you will quickly find yourself with a comprehensive knowledge of fantastically obscure films, actors, directors and roles to cherish for a lifetime.

5) "BROKEN BLOSSOMS" (1919): Lillian was already quite a staple of the silent cinema revolution by the time she took the role in Broken Blossoms. Her relationship with D.W. Griffith was sound and she burst upon the screen at the ripe old age of 21 to portray this downtrodden, misunderstood character. I always really loved this film strictly because of how politically incorrect it would be considered by today's standards. Where do we even begin? The source material for this film came from a short story by Thomas Burke entitled "The Chink and the Child." Yes, they could really use that word and no one set the studio on fire. The character portrayed by Lillian Gish is also somewhat ahead of her time in that she plays the daughter to an abusive, alcoholic prizefighter who is seriously....an ass. That all changes when pixie-faced Gish meets and falls in love with...wait for it...wait for it...A CHINESE IMMIGRANT! Not only do they fall deeply in love, they make a baby...a little half chinese baby...IN 1919 FOLKS?! Of course it has a tragic ending, because in the era of silent films you could either a) laugh hysterically and leave feeling great or b) watch the entire cast drop dead and lose your hope in mankind. This opted for selection B. I won't spoil this great film. It has some of the silent cinema's most memorable shots and for that reason alone, you should make a point to give it 90 minutes of your time and experience Gish as she blossomed under the nurturing hand of the master, Griffith.

4) "THE WHALES OF AUGUST" (1989): The final film for Ms. Gish (and almost the final film for screen legend Bette Davis, who costars in this maudlin spectacle) also, this was the final film directed by Lindsay Anderson (way to wipe out cinema folks). This film pretty much sums up everything I love about Lillian Gish (who was in her 90's!! when this was filmed). It captures her sweet nature, her kind heart, her sympathetic spirit that infected nearly every role she ever played - and to spice it up, she's basically trapped in an idyllic beachfront home with foul-mouthed, delusional Bette Davis. This is not the most potent role for Ms. Gish - however, there is something inherently magical about this movie. It's riddled with poignancy over two old women who gave their lives to entertain us all. I could just sit and stare at Gish and Davis side-by-side for hours. They don't need to speak. Their presence is sufficient. Oh, and guess who their one friend is? Give up? Yeah...it's Vincent Price. This isn't the easiest film to get your paws on, but if you work hard enough - anything is possible.

3) "WAY DOWN EAST" (1920): This was Lillian's follow-up to "Broken Blossoms" and she is still
hammering out the classics with D.W. Griffith when she took the role of Anna. Once again, she pushes the boundaries of acceptability with this feature. She plays a woman with a colorful history, who finds herself "knocked up" and tries to escape her shame by moving far off into the wilds of America. This film is primarily known for its final segment where Lillian is trapped on a river of broken ice, then she collapses unconscious and rides that damn ice floe right over a waterfall. Yes, Griffith copied this from Uncle Tom's Cabin (1918), but who cares? He rocks this scene like nobody's business. If you've never seen film magic being created - this is worth seeing. You'll spot numerous clips that you'll find familiar mostly because this film was so .... copied. I just love it because it's long, it's tragic, it's so melodramatic you'll find yourself acting out as if you were there - and it's got a slam-dunk ending that rivals anything you'll see from the silent era. I wouldn't miss this one. Seriously...

 

 

2) "THE WIND" (1928): And now we're talking! What's not to love about this? Where do I even begin? How about - it was Gish's final silent film. It was Victor Seastrom's attempt to cross-over into American cinema with this poetic, expressionistic story of two hopeless souls, trapped in a desolate environment (selected to direct by Gish herself - cause yeah, the girl had clout out the ying-yang). This was one of the first times a young R.W. Webb got to encounter the lovely Gish lips. In the late 1980's, Turner Classic Movies aired this as part of their Silent Sunday Night festival. It left a lasting impression, opened the door to obsessively studying (not only) Lillian Gish, Lars Hanson but also Victor Seastrom (Sjorstrom), which in turned lead to numerous years of studying European silents. This movie, in simple terms - rocks. You will come away from this feature with more than an appreciation of Lillian Gish's lips, you'll instantly become a fan of silent film, incredible (and remarkably dangerous) special effects and the power that can come from a good leading lady melding with a great innovative director to create something historic, timeless and beautiful. I could write more about this film, but it would all sound the same. Applause...

 

 

1) "NIGHT OF THE HUNTER" (1955): Jesus, Lord...what movie is better than this? How do I even comment on this film without the ability to shriek through text? It's just so good it doesn't even make sense. There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with this phenomenal movie. Let's break it down bit by bit: Director - Charles Laughton in his ONLY directorial feature, he combines German Expressionism, big named Hollywood legends and a script tighter than a tick's ass - to keep you on the edge of your seat. I dare you to watch this and think ... oh this is dated. This movie is the opposite of dated. It's so damn ahead of it's time - it STILL comes off as fresh...now, to comment on the cast. There are numerous memorable performances, both by leads and by extras. I can't even coherently describe how sublime and delicious Shelley Winters is as the downtrodden mother of Pearl and John. Now...about Pearl...Every line, every look, every stumble...is flawless. That little girl completes me. Robert Mitchum as the filthy, disgusting, repugnant preacher who's chasing these poor kids all over mankind...assumes his greatest role in his career. He never shines brighter. In the scene when the little boy spots his shadowy figure coming over the hill and sighs, then says, "Don't you ever sleep?" Can still make audiences cackle with laughter...but that's all before we even GET to the good stuff, because guess where the children wind up? That's right - at the house of Mother Hubbard...or rather, Rachel Cooper (Lillian Gish) and her shotgun of justice. This is the all time best role by Lillian Gish. Hands down. No contest.

She plays a woman who apparently takes in orphans to raise. Her strength, bravado, spine of steel, cupid's bow lips, frilly dresses and that damn shotgun...y'all...it just doesn't get any better than this one. Not only is NOTH one of my favorite films, with one of my favorite stars, by one of my favorite screenwriters, directed by one of the greatest men to ever live...it ALSO includes one of my top five favorite quotes from movie history, a quote that quintessentially defines everything there is to say about Lillian Gish, both on screen and off: "I am a strong tree with branches for many birds. I'm good for something in this old world, and I know it too."

 

 

Like all screen legends, they abide and they endure - and Ms. Lillian Gish will forever have a place in my DVD collection to do just that. Now...why are you still reading? Go get your Gish on! The little lambs are waiting...

 

 



 



Parting Gifts (Original Fiction)

"Parting Gifts"

 

 

She was no different than any of the other passengers. She wore the same beleaguered business suit. She carried the same rumpled bag and when the announcer confirmed the half-hour delay, she wilted with the same frustration as the rest of the other people around her.

But to him, she was the world.

He followed her with his eyes as the crowd burst apart and she slunk quickly down onto a nearby bench. As soon as the people cleared a path, he shuffled toward her as fast as his eighty-years would allow.

“Pardon me, I hate to disturb you but … is this seat taken,” he said over the repeat announcement. She glanced up and shook her head, busy with her phone and updating her statuses on three different social media outlets. He twisted and eased himself onto the bench next to her before speaking again. “The trains are all getting delayed this afternoon. It's because of the snow storm, I'll bet you anything.”

“I don't care what it is. I'm ready to get home,” she smiled, her features glowing with the light from her phone.

He seized the moment and offered his smooth, cool palm.

“I'm Herbert. Today is my birthday.”

“I'm Amanda. Happy Birthday, Herbert.”

“Well, it's very nice to meet you, Amanda. A young woman your age shouldn't be traveling alone. I hope you don't have to go very far.”

She burped with a small laugh, “My age? I'll be twenty-two in June.”

“I'm eighty years old today!”

“That's amazing. You don't look it.”

“Well, that's very kind of you to say,” Herbert smiled and gazed off across the beehive of activity around them.

Commuters filled the lobby for clusters of time. Each of them patiently waiting for the signal from the announcer to tell them which platform to descend to. They rose and fell on weary feet, their shoulders bowed with bundles, their eyes all sunken and grey. They watched the LCD screen like hungry orphans and saw nothing of the world around them.

Amanda kept her eyes on her phone to avoid any further awkward conversation. Even though Herbert came off as a demure, fragile old man – he could be a psychotic, organ-harvesting necrophiliac. She wasn't stupid.

Amanda never missed an episode of CSI.

She knew how things were in the big city.

The past year of growing acclimated to life in the city had done nothing to lower her guard around strangers. Herbert sensed none of this suspicion brewing in the young woman as he stared across the lobby at the hectic Dunkin' Donuts kiosk.

“I don't feel it,” Herbert blurted out of nowhere. “I don't feel it a bit.”

“You don't feel what?”

“Eighty. I expected it to feel different, you know what I mean? You wait and wait and wait and wait and then it's there – bam! Eighty years old. Jesus Christ.”

“Mm-hmm,” Amanda pulled her phone a little closer to her nose as Herbert continued, unaware.

“Eighty years is a long time. You live each day of those eighty years saying things like, 'When I'm eighty, I'll be surrounded by grandchildren on my front porch in blah,' or 'If I live to be eighty, I won't have to stress and worry over blah,' … well, here it is all up on me and it doesn't feel a bit different. It's a bit of a disappointment to tell the truth.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Amanda squirmed and tucked the phone deep inside her purse.

Herbert waved her off like a silly gnat, “What would you know? You're still so young and beautiful. You've got your whole life ahead of you. I'm over here ranting like a crazy person. I'm sorry.”

“I'm twenty-one! I'm not that young!”

“Is that all? Honey – not to sound crude or anything, but I have things clinging to the inside of my intestines older than that. Twenty-one is just a baby.”

Amanda laughed at his salty humor and added, “I wish I felt like a baby. These shoes this new job makes me wear are killing me.”

“Oh? Let's see!”

Herbert leaned over to inspect as Amanda explained, “I just finished my seventy-hour work week and my dogs are barking. They insist that we wear at least a one inch heel even though I spend most of the day with my feet under a desk. Makes no sense to me but I need the work. It took me four months to even find this job. I can't lose it … so my feet have to suffer.”

“What kind of work do you do, if you don't mind my asking?”

Amanda grunted, “Just a temp job. It's what I could get. It's not what I want to do. I really want to be a photographer. The company I work for now is a financial place that publish a magazine I can't even understand. I enter data and answer calls in their sales department. It's brainless work but one day … I'll make a living with my pictures.”

“Why wouldn't you be taking pictures now?” Herbert turned with a curious frown and waited to understand. “If that's what you love doing – it doesn't make sense to me that you'd be wasting a day entering … whatever you just said you did.”

“I have bills to pay. I don't have time to take anymore classes for my photography degree and no one will hire me without one. It's a slow road – so in the meantime, I crunch data.”

Herbert shook his head and turned back to the room full of buzzing people. Amanda sought around inside her purse and pulled out a small digital camera.

“What's that,” Herbert nodded toward the tiny device in her palm.

She passed it to him and smiled.

“That's my camera. Just a little dinky one right now but it's the best I could afford. One day, I'm going to get one of those big fancy professional jobs. I'm saving up.”

“It's so tiny. In my day – cameras were a lot bigger. Seems to me if you had a camera that small, you could be taking pictures of … everything! It's just so convenient!”

Amanda looked flummoxed for a moment then said, “Can I take your picture? I can Photoshop it, add some nice effects and add it to my portfolio.”

“My picture? What in the world would you want my picture for? I'm just an old, ugly man.”

Amanda said, “You have a really interesting face, Herbert. It's soft, and kind … and besides, it's your birthday! I could send you a copy of it as a gift! How's that sound?”

Herbert thought for a moment then answered, “If it will help you with your picture taking work, then … yes. How would you like me to pose? I've never been photographed by a professional. Tell me what to do!”

“Just sit like you were sitting a moment ago – looking out over that way,” Amanda pointed off across the lobby and the bustling hive of men and women rushing for their trains. “Pretend I'm not even here, like you're lost in thought and all that.”

Herbert did as he was told and a sudden flash made him jump. “Goodness! That was bright!”

Amanda flipped the power off and tossed her camera back inside her purse. She lifted her phone out, opened the notepad app and said, “I can send you a copy if you'll just give me your email.”

“What's that?”

“Email? Oh,” Amanda realized Herbert's age and rephrased. “I can mail you a copy! Just give me your home address and I can get it printed and send it to you sometime this week! I work late most nights, so it'll have to wait until the weekend. I'll definitely mail you a copy, though! Where do you live?”

“That's not necessary, Amanda. You just keep it to remember me by,” Herbert chuckled. “I don't want another picture of my old, wrinkled face around. It'll just kill my plants and they're about the only ones around willing to keep me company anymore.”

That awkward, uncomfortable feeling of an elderly person openly addressing the solitude and isolation of his existence washed over youthful Amanda.

She wrinkled her mouth and struggled to find an appropriate response and only came up with, “Happy Birthday, just the same!”

After a moment, Herbert broke the silence with, “If I were you, I wouldn't look forward to eighty like I did. If I were you, I'd be taking pictures and doing everything I could to follow my heart right here today. You shouldn't wait.”

Amanda stretched her legs and said, “Not everyone can afford to follow their hearts in this day and age. If I could make a living with my pictures, trust me – I'd be doing it.”

“You won't know unless you try. Sounds to me like you wasted seventy hours this week doing something that brought you no joy when you could have spent all that time doing something that was rewarding.”

Amanda thought for a moment and agreed, “You're right. I should take more photos. During my lunch break and on my way to work. You're right. I see a lot of things I could work with and that's why I moved here from Ohio in the first place. I just got so caught up in trying to keep the lights on, I forgot what I was here to do!”

“There you go! Seize every second you can while you're still young enough to endure it. Don't wait around like I did. I was always looking toward the future. I had one of those mentalities. I kept looking toward tomorrow until all my tomorrows were used up and here I sit, eighty years old and can't even afford a decent dinner. It's not what I imagined. It's not at all what I imagined … but then again – nothing ever is.”

Amanda produced a single bill from her pocket and handed it to Herbert with a smile. “I'm sorry. It's only a twenty. It's all I have on me. It's not very much, but it's enough for some fast food.”

“Thank you,” he said as the bill vanished with a blur inside his coat pocket. Herbert leaned back against the bench and added. “Eighty years old and here I am. At least I got to spend time with a such a sweet young woman like you, Amanda. I'm awfully glad your train was delayed, if you don't mind my saying so. It's a blessing to meet someone with such a kind, generous heart in this day and age – and especially on my birthday.”

“No problem,” she jostled on the bench as the announcer read off another series of departures. At the end of the announcement was the one Amanda had been pining for and she quickly collected her belongings, turned to Herbert and said, “Say … what time is your train?”

Herbert stood from the bench by bracing himself on his cane with one shaking arm. “I'm not taking the train, honey.”

“You're not? I thought you were delayed like me! How much longer until you leave this God forsaken station and go home to celebrate your birthday?”

Herbert pet the young woman's shoulder with a familiar touch and said, “I am home, honey. I live here.”

Amanda looked down at her feet and pulled her purse close over her shoulder.

The tide of people pushed her toward the steel framed door and she struggled to catch sight of Herbert who stood motionless, propped on his single cane with a weary smile bleeding across his face.

She stepped out of the current and called over the metallic voice of the next round of announcements, “I'll see you around, Herbert! I come through here every afternoon about this same time! I'm sure we'll see each other again!”

“That'll be nice, Amanda. I'll look forward to it,” Herbert struggled to yell. The sign above the door leading down to platform nine began to flash, Herbert nodded toward it and urged, “You better go. You don't want to miss this one.”

Amanda glanced up and yelped.

She grappled her bag and as she stepped onto the escalators leading down into the sultry subterranean corridor, she called back over her shoulder as she rode away, “Happy Birthday, Herbert! I hope you have a good one!”

As Amanda rode downward on steady tracks, she pulled her camera out of her purse and smiled down at the newest photo in her collection. Herbert's statuesque lines revealed each week of the man's life. His tired eyes wept with longing and Amanda knew this would only be the first in a series of character studies she could work on to keep the spark alive.

Her spirits renewed, Amanda faced the maddening crowd with a renewed faith in herself, her abilities and a restored will to seize every moment as a fresh, promising opportunity.

Herbert waited until she vanished and then he turned to face the milling crowd once more.

Blank faces stared up at the LCD screen awaiting the cue to bolt into motion. Passengers stood like pillars, with their necks craned back; baby birds awaiting food.

One jarring disturbance caught Herbert's eye and he followed it as it eased its way out of the crowd and knelt down by the wall.

The flustered mother pushed the stroller next to the bench he'd just abandoned and plopped down, her cheeks bursting with color. Under a plastic screen came the shriek of an unhappy infant and the woman tore through her shoulder bag in search of something to silence the wailing as she waited for the announcement. Herbert slid across the polished tile floor without drawing an eye.

Herbert stepped up to the woman, cleared his throat and asked, “Pardon me, I hate to disturb you but … is this seat taken?”

by R.W. Webb

(c) 2013 All Rights Reserved.

 

 

This and many other fabulous tales can be found in The Collected Tales, Volume One or if you fancy your stories a bit meatier, try one of the novellas available on my Amazon Author Page.

 

Trestlewood Estates

 

 

 

I can remember the day the old conductor finally found his head down at the old trestle that spanned Red Creek. That was also the last day anyone ever set foot out at Trestlewood Estates.

That one slice of forest and that creepy old wooden bridge which looked as if at any moment it would crumble down into the trickling brown waters were our only local landmarks. The Haunted Trestle is what it was called back then. No one ever went out there because they didn't want the ghost to get them and take their head, but everyone in Bent Hope knew exactly where it was.

The story was the always the same as it passed down through the generations, and every old lady in Bent Hope could recite it like a scripture.

Shortly after the Civil War, a conductor running supplies from Weldon to Raleigh was using the abandoned train line as a short cut when he encountered a snagged switch and leaped from the train to tug at the rusted bar so that the train could cross the creek. The faulty switch, and his antiquated brakes worked against him that night over the waters of Red Creek. The train kept moving, and as the conductor tried to grapple his way back into the cabin to take control of the haywire engine, he lost his footing and fell beneath the unforgiving steel wheels. From that night on, the resentful conductor was known to scour the banks of Red Creek in an eternal search for the head that was shaved off by those sparkling wheels.

Sometimes you could hear him walking in the forest crunching leaves and branches under his boots as loud as any bear. Sometimes a strange wind would pass that was muggy with heat and reeked of coal oil, so powerful the stench would remain in your clothes. Sometimes the sound of a voice raised in anger could be heard, echoing down by the banks of the creek but when you looked – nothing was there. Sometimes you could see the light from his lantern swinging at waist level in the middle of the rusting trestle but when you approached it would vanish.

My parents' generation and the one before theirs knew that the old trestle was haunted. It was a mysterious local legend for a reason and anyone from Bent Hope who actually did go out there would come back with some creepy, unexplained story about their encounter with the old conductor. He was always there. Always looking.

Everything remained that way for years and years until one day a company from Raleigh purchased the little creek-side slice of land and shaved the trees and hills away as if they were icing on a cake. As if that was going to be okay with the old conductor.

There was space for twelve identical houses that would hug the banks of Red Creek and give an impressive view of the old trestle. The company printed up beautiful brochures and tried luring some local families to buy, buy, buy - but no one was that stupid. No one from our town wanted to go anywhere near the haunted trestle.

The trucks still rumbled in every morning – all summer long. The hammering kept going. The grinding went like clockwork. The buzz saws pierced the lunchtime lull. The work never ceased. They proceeded undaunted and on schedule.

Everyone in town watched with one eyebrow raised as the foundations were poured from the back of spinning trucks. We all had this sense of foreboding. We were all holding our breath and waiting. It gripped every member of Bent Hope young and old. As every night came, we listened cautiously to the sound of the trucks leaving for the day. Then we could breathe.

That all changed when Cyrus McMillan's head got cut off. After that no one ever went out to Trestlewood Estates again.

It was supposed to be called Trestlewood Estates. It was supposed to usher in a new era to our tiny, rural town and bring prosperity and a fleet of new families eager to spend their dollars in our tiny shops.

The construction team came from Raleigh to hammer and saw, nail and yell relentlessly until the twelve little homes were ready for their families. Cyrus, the son-in-law of the man who owned the company that had purchased the property – and the one person fully invested in the venture happened to stay late the night of the 16^th to inspect some of the dry wall they were putting up in the fourth house down. While the bulk of the team left for the day, Cyrus bent over the dusty table and sneered at the frustrating riddle in his plans.

As he stood in the empty house with the skeletal walls casting elongated shadows across his feet like a prisoner, Cyrus inspected the blueprints with the scrutiny of a jeweler. Something was off in the calculations somewhere. He could smell it.

Cyrus squinted and sketched some errant doodles on the border of the blue carbon paper while his brain muddled over the possibilities he'd overlooked. His mind was absorbed in the cryptic doodle when the first meek knock came from the front of the house.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was soft but insistent. Whoever it was had meant to be heard but not impolite.

Cyrus looked up from the table toward the doorway. There was no door so there was nothing to knock upon, but the noise had come from that direction.

He stepped toward the cinder-block porch and preened his neck through the opening. “Hello? Who's out here?” Cyrus ventured to call out, but there was no response other than the dim tinkle of water at the bottom of Red Creek and the hiss of the wind in the trees.

“This stress is killing me,” he muttered as he spun back to the blueprints. Cyrus had a bad habit of discussing his thoughts out loud to himself. “I'm starting to hear things. I can't wait for this to be over.”

Cyrus stopped and grimaced at the dark splotch in the center of the foyer wall. The dark, bleeding stain in the newly hung sheet rock was vexing the entire crew. If he didn't figure out the cause of the leak soon, he'd have to explain his error to his father-in-law and face that mask of scorn and disappointment.

There seemed to be no way to stop the seepage from filtering up into the walls when there should be no water at all. They had laid pipes and irrigated the entire shelf of the creek so it was as inexplicable how there would still be ground water oozing up the spongy walls.

Cyrus knew there had to be something in the details that had gone unnoticed. The angles were off somehow and if he didn't fix it they would end up paying through the nose for repairs and restorations from disgruntled home owners. Not to mention the ridicule he'd face if his father-in-law found out he was using cheap labor and bottom-level materials.

He had to nip this problem in the bud and make his father-in-law happy by saving the company all the agony that his oversight might cause. The entire development had been Cyrus' idea. His neck was on the line. His father-in-law had rallied against their marriage, and this would seal it. Cyrus grunted and stomped back to the drafting table, defeated.

The last of the trucks rumbled by outside on the dirt path sending plumes of red dust into the room. Cyrus looked up from the table through the windowless window and watched as the brake lights turned onto the state route and vanished. Just as he sighed and turned his attention back to the blueprints, the knocking returned from the front of the house, this time sending a tremor through the floor boards.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Cyrus shot through the open doorway and over the cinder-block stairs to land flat footed on the powdery yard. He stepped further away from the house until he could see both sides of the property. With his hands on his hips, he marched around and shouted with authority.

“Who's out here banging like that? You just missed your ride home! Don't think you can catch one with me either. Who's doing that? Answer me! Answer me!”

But no one answered. The only sound was the crackle of the wind in the limbs surrounding him, soft and rhythmic almost as if the forest were breathing.

Cyrus stood facing the empty house. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and groaned. He looked toward the old trestle at the bend in the road. His chest drummed with an anxious heart. His reputation was at stake over this debacle and Cyrus felt the ulcer growing in his gut by the hour. He had to fix the problem or he'd never hear the end of it. His father-in-law had ridiculed his abilities since the honeymoon, so there was no way Cyrus could let Trestlewood Estates be a failure. They had to sell, his marriage depended on it.

If each of the properties went for what they expected to receive, he would make his father-in-law a profit of nearly eight-hundred thousand dollars on the whole deal. Cyrus' acceptance could be bought with that much money.

He puffed his chest out and stepped back into the dim interior of the house. With his jaw clenched with determination, Cyrus stepped back up the cinderblock stairs.

As soon as his foot crossed the threshold the sound shook the framed walls so hard the second floor foundation creaked and dust settled down from the cracks in the timbers. It burst like a cannon just inches behind him as he stepped into the house. Three steady blasts, so loud the vibrations sent a twitch down his back.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Cyrus flinched at the explosive sound and hunkered his head down into his shoulders.

He certainly wasn't the type to be startled easily, so he kept himself from screaming and walked calmly out of the house and around to the back yard. A high pitched tone filled his ears. His flesh tingled as if he were being watched, but every time he turned around to check there was nothing there but orphaned piles of lumber, tools and debris; Igloo coolers and hard hats.

The night oozed down around the treetops and the sound of the waters in the creek seemed to grow steadily louder as the sky lost its vivacity. The woods were thick and tangled and pressed around the little strip of land on all sides. A rusty creak pierced the silence as the trestle groaned in the breeze.

There was no one outside the house. There was no one anywhere in Trestlewood Estates. Cyrus could see from one end to the other, and nothing moved at all. Platforms of forgotten lumber lay waiting until tomorrow. Grease-stained wheelbarrows sat pressed up against piles of folded tarps. Pallets of concrete powder sat waiting for the hose. It looked exactly like it was supposed to – but that didn't explain the banging.

Cyrus walked around the opposite side of the house, looking carefully along the foundation for any sign of the seepage as the sky faded from indigo to black and the first stars sparkled out with eagerness.

Cyrus flipped the exposed circuit beside the doorway as he stepped back inside house number four. A half dozen dangling bulbs burst with light and cast lonely coffee-colored shadows across the floor.

He stepped back into the dining room and looked at the curled edges of the blueprint. “I have no idea what's wrong,” he said to himself, the one person sure to listen. “I have to go home and deal with this tomorrow. I can't think anymore. I'm beat. I give up.”

The yard outside was cloaked behind the weighted velvet curtain of darkness. He stood illuminated in the open window and drummed his fingers on the table with nervous energy. He traced the barrier wall with his split fingernail until he found the tiny notations for where it met up with the plumbing system. Cyrus couldn't pull the nagging sensation out of his mind. He knew he was close. The intricate angle wasn't right. He could sense something off in that calculation so he flicked open his briefcase and pulled out his electric calculator. He couldn't let go.

Keying in the numbers rapidly, Cyrus chewed on his lip with thought. It wasn't like him to miss something this imperative – something this revealing about his skills as an architect.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

The force cause Cyrus to tumble backwards and lose his balance. The floor under him shifted and something on the second floor clattered to the ground and rang like a cymbal.

Cyrus marched toward the open window with the calculator still clutched in his hand and as his heart drummed against his Adam's apple, he hurled the small plastic device in anger. He threw it as hard as he could out into the front yard and stood framed in the window - waiting; listening for the sound of it shattering outside in the darkness. But there was nothing.

The calculator never landed. There was no sound at all.

Cyrus knew (because he had penned every inch of the development himself) that there was nothing in the yard that should have absorbed the shock of the plastic shell. There was supposed to be a crash-clatter-slam. There should have been something. Anything. He should not have been denied the satisfaction of hearing it burst into a thousand micro-pieces across the ground. Cyrus felt cheated. Robbed of even the smallest amount of satisfaction after a bizarre and frustrating day, he sighed and picked up his briefcase from the table. Cyrus jingled the keys in his pocket and stepped out of the dining room.

He grimaced at the dark spot in the foyer wall and stepped toward the doorway. No one ever saw Cyrus alive again.

The next morning his crew arrived to find his Buick still parked outside of house four.

When the foreman leaped from the truck at 5:45am and ran up to the house, he found a pool of mahogany blood drizzling down the face of the cinder-block porch and the limp feet of Cyrus McMillan lying twisted just inside the doorway. His pants were pulled up so the cold, blue flesh of his ankles shined in the golden morning sun.

The foreman bellowed out in alarm and the truck full of construction workers emptied in a flash as everyone ran to see the headless body of their boss.

Stepping over the gore, the foreman walked into the dining room as he dialed 911 on his cell phone.

The operator answered with a reluctant drawl as the foreman read the words left scrawled on the blueprint in Cyrus' blood. Four words that none of us in Bent Hope would ever be able to say again without a cold chill running down the back of our necks.

As his eyes leaped from the jagged script to the decapitated corpse of Cyrus, the man stuttered and read the terrifying message to the woman on the phone.

“Thanks For The Head.”

 

"Trestlewood Estates" originally appeared in Bleeding Ink Anthology and is included in The Collected Tales of R.W.Webb, Volume One (available in paperback or fancy electronical space devices).

Collecting Old Friends

Hey y'all! It's been a while, right?

It's okay because I've been busier than a one legged cat. In case you're not tapped into the mainline of R.W. Webb information - there has been a dramatic amount of releases over the past month.

You heard me!

First up: The Collected Tales (Volumes 1-3) are available for your kindles NOW! The paperback versions of each of these volumes will start becoming available in October (vol. 1) November (vol. 2) December (I lost track, you get the gist).

Inside these three books are 41 of my weirdest, most reknown, most published, most unloved and most disgusting short stories penned over the past twenty-five years. I have officially purged my secret stash of about 30% and it filled 3 volumes! Whaaaaat?

Volume One: Includes everything I've published in magazines, newspapers and elsewhere - under any of my various pen names. There are fifteen total stories in Volume One. Two are making their debut in this collection. I'll list them out below, let's move on.

Volume Two: The Novellas - this volume has four massive thrill-rides. You can't miss this one. There's two new stories you haven't seen included here! I'm getting you ready for the big surprises in Vol. 3, see?

Volume Three: Twenty-two brain farts! The oldest story I still have ("The Tickets" when I was 10) and the most recent story ("The Wobble Effect" the Biblical tale of Moses...if Moses was an octopus in a fish store). Boom! Your mind just blew up.

But wait! That's not all!

Saturdays, At The Bijoux - is available as a Kindle Single and already topping the best seller charts in literary fiction and horror. This novella is included in Volume 2 of the Collected Tales, but if you prefer your gore in tidy doses, this $2.99 thrill-ride is for you! I'll admit, the ending to this one actually makes ME cringe - so for those of you who like it rough...you may want to buy a ticket for the picture show and go see what's going on inside that old, abandoned theater. You were warned.

Here's where shit gets weird...

As you all know, I have a trilogy of fantasy novels starring the character Singer Bardin coming out soon. What you don't know is ... Singer Bardin meets his friends every day at 6pm in Storytime Village (a small town atop his mountain fortress) and reads from a gigantic tome of "happy stories" as he pretends to be the character of Uncle Rooster. The villagers aren't that smart.

The Furrie Niblets: Is part of "Uncle Rooster's Tome of Happy Stories" - the first and only tie-in to the Whirligig Ranch series, this collection of 31 flash fiction tales will delight your boobies off. Not only that - but each of the 31 "niblets" have an audio edition where Uncle Rooster himself reads these tales FOR you! For the time being - the mp3's are separate from the ebook, but we're working on making an "enhanced kindle" experience whereby these are fused together. Technology.

So that's about it for now. One month - 1400 pages of fresh reading for you.

That outta give me a head start.



Happy Reading!!