Page updated: 04/25/2026
You headed into town to get a lay of the land while your wife lay sleeping in the morning. There was a small residential district packed with sunfaded trailers and a few larger houses on the court’s perimeter. None such as your new residence, but homes nonetheless. There were a few empty concrete lots where trailers evidently used to be that you could see from the road over the dead field. Nothing you hadn’t seen driving here. Inbetween the houses and the town’s heart was little but decaying farmhouses with silos surrounded by brown overgrowth and signs for how far away the next town was in miles.
WELCOME TO
JOBOF. LAND OF
A THOUSAND
a sign further down the road read, its lower half covered with black paint. You doubted that anyone would fix this any time soon — the paint was old enough to be chipping some, though the text beneath it was still illegible, faint blues showing through. You drove past the sign towards the town’s core. An antique church sat next to the modest town hall-jail combination building, Church of God the only visible lettering on the church’s original signpost. Part of the building looked charred, though the church’s dark wood construction made it hard to make such a judgement. Across from the church sat an outworn liquorstore that also sold cigarettes and beside that was a more proper gas station. Slightly further downroad there were a few shabby storefronts. Among them stood a building labeled Jobof Inn with a broken Zoltar to the door’s left. You parked and walked up the white steps onto the wooden porch. A battered wicker chair sat to the right of the door. A miniature chalkboard affixed to a rough cut of wood hung from a nail pounded into the door:
Get a room 10 am to 10 pm
or when I'm awake
Spirit 10 am to 5 pm
You checked your phone. It was 8. You chose to knock on the door and got no answer. You tried to look in the windows but they were both impenetrable. One of the windows had bleached floral curtains obscuring the view and the other had thick blue velvet. You returned to the door and knocked once more. Still nothing. You turned the knob and the door opened with no resistance, stepping into Inn. An aging, stained faux-indigenous patterned carpet was exposed by the morninglight from the open doorway. You groped around the wall for a lightswitch and found it eventually. A few lights held in dusty glass illuminated what was revealed to be the lobby. The carpet extended to all four walls. The curtains had been concealing large terracottas with real plants growing, a few flowers in each pot, blue and red blooms. Black hangers with a thin metal robin on top were screwed into the windowframes, spiderplants in plastic pots on each side above the central vessel, spiderettes dipping low. Behind the counter stood shelves packed with books dusty with disuse, though a few books sat on top the shelves with bits of paper sticking out, likely as placeholders. The walls were painted a dull brown with yellow splotches in a few places, a couple of dark oak chairs pushed against the rough surface. To the left was a doorway obscured by a purple veil and to the right was a staircase.
You considered leaving, but before you could think it over much more someone in a black cloak pierced the purple drapery. She looked you over through her glasses with unease. Then she smiled. “ You’re the new man, “ she said without affect. Her fingers brushed the back of your hand. “ I’ve seen you yesterday. It’s getting late in the year. You’re that old man son that died and left that big house in the woods. I can tell it, “ she insisted, brushing away her black hair. “ That is what brings you. New life in a time of death. You should come back with me. “ You thought on her words for a time and ultimately agreed to enter the room with her. She ushered you into a room painted red with the same blue velvet curtains as the front covering the windows here as well. A couple candles flickering on a sidetable next to a recliner. In the corner furthest from the room’s entry was a battered sectional with some dingy pillows and a heavy blanket. The opposite corner held a cradle with a sleeping baby. “ Be quiet, but sit in the chair, “ she instructed, pointing to the recliner. “ Careful. Fire is no toy. “ You nodded and sat in the chair. She pulled a pillow off the sectional and sat crosslegged upon it before you. “ My Christian name’s Laura, but I don’t want called that. I prefer Raven, “ she told you. She pulled a yellow pack of cards from a pocket in her outergarment. She took a portion of the cards and fanned them out before holding them up to you. “ Take one. “ You stared at the cards and pulled one near the middle. Raven took the card and her face lit up. “ The Chariot! It’s almost unbelievable. Why, I don’t even know your name yet, and I feel something special in you. The Chariot. You might not know the cards, but surely you see that, “ she said. You looked over to the flames for a time before returning your gaze to Raven. “ I can tell you’re nervous. When you feel calmer you come on back to me, whatever your name is. You don’t even need to tell me your name just now, you tell me when you come back. “
(This might actually become something bigger eventually but for now it'll be here. I just felt like posting something since it's been a bit and I finished this first draft of it tonight)
Dylan and Jack sat out in the trees in sunbleached lawn chairs, past the rusting trailers they called home, resting under the clementine summer sun, staring at the rows of flattened, used up cornstalks just past the thinned-out woodland. Some cans with faded print and a few glass bottles strewn about the grass. Jack dug around in his pocket for a lighter and a pack of pyramids. He pulled the last one from the box and lit up, then he tossed the box down into the pile of junk at the base of the dying tree that neighborhood kids would carve their confessions of love into. There were a few of the sand and ivory colored packs in the grass with some ash and butts laying about. If Jack had an extra Dylan probably would have asked for one — he always liked how Jack looked with it hanging out of his mouth, the smoke reminded him of the chimney his family used during the winters when he was little. The silvery crucifix around his neck reflected the amber flame in a pleasant way too, he thought. He had never even touched one before, but he wanted to try. Aint nothin like it. I know its not a whole lot, Jack said.
Dylan considered what was said. I guess. I don’t know if I like it sometimes, he admitted, frowning. Dylan repositioned his chair to get closer. I still like you though, Jack. Youre different. Always have been. I couldnt ever just sit here with no one else, just the two of us. Jack took a drag and coughed. Youre alright. I like you, he volunteered. Dylan forced his hands into his jeans and looked down some. Dylan's brown hair shielded his eyes from scrutiny, though part of him wanted them to be seen. I, uh, really like you. A lot, he choked out, his eyes drawn to the other’s shiny belt buckle. I don’t know what Id do without you sometimes. I hope thats not weird. Jack cracked his neck and stared at the junk tree. Its fine, he told Dylan. The sky was darkening off in the distance and they both knew the trailer court’s streetlights had burned out bulbs over near the farms and had for a while now. Dylan doubted if they would ever put new ones in. They should be able to get home before dark if they left somewhat soon, but he liked watching as the sun fall behind the clouds and he had been trying to watch it with Jack for a while now. Its pretty, huh? he asked. Jack nodded. Yeah. It is. He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette onto the ground and stood up. We should be getting home prolly. Gettin dark. Your momll prolly want you home. Dylan looked up at him for a moment before he also stood. Shes been a bit less strict lately. I guess with it being summer and all that, he reasoned. I know you dont like the dark too much anyway. Dylan gave a shy assenting nod and stepped even closer to Jack. I dont mind walkin you back.
So they both started on the path home. Dylan and Jack lived in the front, so they had to walk the entire length of the trailerpark. Dylan stayed close, looking to Jack more than the road ahead. Today was nice, he said. He looked down to the buckle again. An eternally lustrous gold-like material. Why couldn’t his hair be that way? It made him angry almost. It would all be so much easier, he thought to himself. He had considered dyeing it before, but he knew it wouldn’t change much of anything. His favorite actresses were blonde, so were most of the girls in school. Lucky bitches. They didn’t know what they had. They couldn’t know, more likely than not — how could they? He could tell Jack had said something, but the details were indiscernible. Hearing his voice was enough for the moment. He leaned nearer again and tried to catch a brief sight of the taller one’s eyes. What you mean by some of what youve been saying? Youre a good friend, but youre confusin too. Dylan shut his eyes momentarily, processing. Youre just special to me, I guess. Thats all, Jack. He had a look on his face like he was trying to figure out his homework without Dylan’s help. I guess youre special to me too, yeah, he agreed. By this time they had come half the way and the sun had set behind tall trees off in the distance, behind the rows of corn.
The metal pieces of Jack’s outfit caught his eyes, how they caught the light coming off of the functional streetlights closer to the trailers. Bright spots like the white christmas lights they used to string across the porch that made the snow sparkle in the night. He was tempted to reach for them, to feel the cold metal to see if that’s what it truly was. He felt as a crow staring at shiny baubles must have. He giggled at the idea for a moment. Jack turned to the source of this noise and found him reaching for the cross. Fuckre you doing? Jack barked. Dont do that shit. I already told you thats from my dad. I dont like people touchin on it, thats why I dont wear it out. He crunched Dylan’s wrist as a deterrent. The boy screamed. He fell against Jack, his breath ragged. Fuck. Jack sat them down on the sidewalk. Shit. You gonna be just fine, he assured Dylan, looking at the wrist a bit more carefully. Dylan shook his head. I dont know. It hurts bad, he said, grimacing when Jack touched the damaged area. There were visible wet spots under his eyes. Well, uh. Why dont you come along back with me. I can get you snuck in. We might have somethin that helps. Dylan nodded and Jack helped him stand up.
The rest of the walk was smudgy, impressionistic. That cigarette dangling, getting shorter with every step, dimming in pace with the world. Outside of pale illumination from the aging, unreliable streetlights they had limited vision. Jack buttressed the injured boy as they trudged over to his house. They said nothing — Dylan would give nonlexical whimpers as his pain came and went, his meak sounds of displeasure backed by cicadachirps and the distant oceanesque noises of the road. Jack put his hand around Dylan’s hip for further support. He squirmed a little but kept the course. They went up the wooden steps and Jack stepped forward. Stupid fuckin thing. He had to slow down to not break the screendoor. Be careful. Come back with me. They stepped into a combination livingroom and kitchen. Dylan had been in here before and it was always about the same. There was a distinct note of mold that always hung in the air. The stove was still gunked up with some rancid black waste to the point of being useless, only being able to click as if it had any intention of starting, though it would let that gross natural gas scent saturate the air. The ceiling had this horrible pseudo-popcorn texture, and oddly bulbous lighting fixtures with grease splatters coating the outside hung off of it; it looked like something was resting on the bottom of the glass, though the low lighting made it hard to judge. The semiglobular booblights had a stale urine color that made them rather unpleasant to look at for too long, mimmicking the illness Dylan experienced in situ. There was a cheap flatscreen TV situated in front of a fraying faux-leather couch and an old wood rocking chair on a brown shaggy rug. He would much rather go to Jack’s room anyway. His parents were rather austere, mean people from what he knew. It came naturally for him to sneak off into Jack’s room. Whatever was beyond there was best left alone.
His room was pretty good. The carpet was always a bit damp, but he normally had shoes on, so it didn’t really matter. Jack had a TV without a stand that was proppd up cattycorner against the wall atop a nearly-antique looking dresser. There were some roughly round spots with a sticky sheen, some of Jack’s black-brown hairs and other residential debris stuck in whatever made the mess. He knew the contents of the dresser by heart. The bottom drawer had a videogame console of some sort — which he thought to be an Xbox — accompanied by some offbrand controllers with gummed-up buttons, the middle drawer had his always unfolded clothes at various states of cleanliness, and the top was just were he stored his backpack. Under the bed, Jack had created a system that let him push down on the floor in a certain way to reveal a hole under the carpet that held all the things he ‘wasn’t supposed to have’, things he knew his parents would snoop around for. Jack had let Dylan look in there and he saw a great many things. Some bills resting among what c ould have amounted to a carton of cigarettes and some beercans, thin and nearing-transparent papers, a couple of those gunmetal zippo-like lighters and some knives of varying sorts. When Dylan asked about it, Jack said: They have to stay down here, my folksd get them, them fuckers. I oughta kill my dad that son of a bitch. Last time I left moren ten dollars around he took it. If I see him do it again I might. Hes gonna overdose anyway. So, he never asked again and everyone was the better for it.
They sat down on Jack’s knotty bed and he took a look at Dylan’s wrist. That does look outta shape. Damn. I dont know just what to do. Im sorry, he said, mournful. He moved his hand down to Dylan’s arm. Im real sorry. Real, real sorry. I didnt mean it. I didnt. Im sorry. I really didnt. He closed his eyes. Please dont be mad. Im real sorry. Dylan put his other hand on Jack’s. Its okay. Im fine, its okay. You didnt do anything wrong. Its alright, Jack. Calm down. Im the one hurt and youre upset. Now just calm down for me, he said, wincing as he moved his injured wrist. Its gonna be alright. You can relax, Jackie. He sobbed as Dylan moved closer. I am sorry, Jackie. Please, dont be upset, he pleaded, his voice softening. Jack sniffed and stayed quiet. Why dont you get a drink or something. That makes you feel better sometimes. I cant get it, because, uh, you know, he said, trailing off. Just get it, Jackie. Its okay. Ill sit here with you. Jack nodded, tired and worn out. Okay. He lurched off to the kitchen. Dylan could hear the door of the refrigerator swing open.
Dylan was left to himself for a time. The pain radiating from his wrist occupied most of his mind, but there were other things to think about. There was a wide hole on the left wall, under the window. Jack had told him about it the first time they went in together. He said: Dont worry about that, it was a mistake. There were always rumors. Rumors about girls, about Jack’s father. There would always be rumors, Dylan thought, because enough people cared about Jack for some to hate him. No one cared about Dylan, so no one really hated him, and rumors of that sort simply couldn’t arise. The voracious, carnivorous liars that fed upon the despair of good men would always want to gorge themselves. He knew that, and still, the hole made him uncomfortable today. He stared singledmindedly into the abyssal space for a long while. It made the pain in his wrist subsist if he focused on it hard enough, but it produced a psychologically itchy sensation he found equally as displeasurable. Jack would be back before long anyway.
Jack returned with an open can in his hand and an exhausted demeanor. He plopped down on the bed, spilling part of the can on his already-stained pants and some on the blanket they sat on. I know itll look it but I didnt piss myself, he said slowly. Dylan could not help chuckling some before groaning in pain from moving his wrist suddenly. It aint... aint funny. It just aint fuckin funny. I didnt go pissin myself. Dylan laughed again, stronger this time. I didnt think you had, Jackie. He scooted across the bed, using his good hand to touch Jack’s face. I love how your face feels. He leaned forward, sniffing him. You need a shower, though, he teased. Yeah. Im just tired. Dylan dragged that hand over to Jack’s. I could help you, he offerred, staring up. Hell. Maybe. He drank some more from the can, his eyes shut. He groaned. Get over here, he said groggily. Dylan obliged, working himself onto Jack’s lap without the aid of his bad hand. He put his hand on Jack’s head, palm resting on his scalp. Im right here Jackie, he whispered. He kissed his cheek. Just relax. Its alright. Im already feeling better, he said. Jack tried to get something like a word out but it died in his mouth. Shh. Dont worry about me Jackie. Im okay. Youre too tired to be worrying about me. Dylan put a finger over Jack’s mouth and giggled. Its okay, I promise you. You just need to be calm, Jackie. I know youre upset about what happened to me, but its okay. I know you didnt mean it Jackie. Let me help you with that thing, he said, taking the can into his good can and putting it to Jack’s lips. I dont mind holding it for you Jackie. His legs were spread out, his feet going behind Jack’s back. There, there. He tipped the can back, a strange smile on his face. He dripped the remains into Jack’s throat. Good job, he whispered. Good. Very good. Dylan set the can on a dinky bedside table and returned his touch to Jack’s hair. I should brush your hair. Its such a mess, he lamented. He tried to smooth out some of the simpler tangles with his hand. It was so nice when you let it grow out a little. Jack made a noise of some sort and Dylan covered his mouth again. Shh. Its okay. You should probably get some sleep. He rubbed the back of Jack’s head and talked quietly. Just get to sleep.
They sat in silence for a while. Dylan’s breath was labored. He was not all that heavy, but his weight made Jack even drowsier. Before long he was snoring. It sounded like his parents must have been asleep or passed out, seeing as they hadn’t shown themselves yet. Dylan put his lips on Jack’s neck, taking in the luscious scents, his nose buried deep in the crook of Jack’s neck. The alcohol, the sweat, lingering hints of the past few days. His good hand rested on Jack’s chest while his bad hand hung limp over to the side. He felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with his breath, up and down, rising and falling, up and down again and again — it was all so fascinating. The smells, the scents, the taste, it was beyond imagination. Jack started stirring and Dylan gave up. He laid his head in his own drool and fell asleep.