The Campaign Builder's Guild

It was an odd November morning when little flakes of snowy dandruff fell on Shackle, the punitive little town that Prester Mathis was from. Prester, a wiry old man of twenty three years of age, sported the collar and temperament of a preacher, his hands clenched to a black Bible every waking hour and his mouth spraying quotes of scripture carelessly into the wind. The winter was blowing in from up north, and Alabaman spokespeople were reluctant to give up the good old days, but Prester knew better. He was a widower, but his two daughters'"Dixie and Harlem, beautiful girls'"and his big yellow dog, Courage, were his world, and he spent tireless days and nights teaching them about the world. As God had intended.

   But the weather is not what made that cold November day so strange. Nor was it the travelling circus that had circled the city limits, for that was to be expected; Shackle's Foundation Day had always attracted spectacle and amazement. No, what moved the townsfolk to curiosity was the arrival of a small man, no taller than five and a half feet, dressed in a brown tweed jacket, checkerboard pants, and a polka-dot shirt, who had taken up residence in the local Baptist church. He had arrived on Sunday after the sermon had been given, a full three days before the circus arrived, but he hadn't spoken to anyone upon his arrival. When the service let out, everyone filed out except for him, and the townspeople just locked him inside the sanctuary, unsure how to treat him. A lynch mob had been formed, but Prester talked them down. 'There isn't a call for that, gents,' Prester had said in his genteel drawl. 'Let's just wait it out.'

   And wait they did. It was nearly Thursday, and the tiny little man had yet to show himself. The people were getting anxious, and Prester promised a crowd he'd look into things. 'Just get to the circus,' he said with a smile. 'I'll sort things out, it's no trouble.'  He buttoned up his black shirt, put on his preacher's collar, and unlocked the black door to the sanctuary.

   The short man sat in one of the back pews, his eyes concealed by a pair of black plastic sunglasses and his hair standing on end, curled and untamed as a burning bush. Prester approached. 'What's your name, boy?' he said, sliding a pair of horn-rimmed glasses onto his nose.

   'They call me Judas,' the short man said. His voice was nasally and rough. 'But I prefer Job.'

   'Like from the Bible,' Prester said, holding his black book up.

   The short man's head turned to face him. 'I guess.'

   'You have been in here for several days,' Prester said. 'Any reason why, Job?'

   'It's my tomb.'

   Prester's eyebrows arched and his thin lips pressed together. 'Oh? You don't seem very'¦ dead'¦ to me.'

   The short man put his feet up, his dirty loafers resting on the pew. 'It's a work in progress.'

   Prester looked to the altar. An empty bottle of communion wine sat atop, and the plate of wafers was empty. 'What have you been eating?'

   'Same thing as you. Body and blood, but at least mine was offered voluntarily.'

   Prester's faced drooped. 'That was the church's, son, not yours.'

   'And who does the church belong to?'

   Prester leaned forward. 'God, of course.'

   'Why didn't God tell you to lock up the food and drink, then?'

   'We never had a problem with anyone stealing Communion wine before.'

   The short man sat up, and though his eyes were concealed behind those damn shades, Prester swore that Job was staring at him. 'How can you steal what's freely given?'

   Prester, taken aback, pulled his Bible to his chest. There was a brief pause in his thoughts as the short man was inches from his face. 'Well, Job,' he said with a forced smile. 'Where are you from, then?'

   'You mind?' The short man pulled a cigarette and lit it before Prester could respond. He blew smoke toward the crucifix. 'I'm from all sorts of places.'

   'I mean to say, where were you raised.'

   'Never was raised. I've been lowered, but never raised to my satisfaction. Tell you who was raised,' he said with a grin. He pointed his cigarette at the crucifix. 'They sure raised him. I was raised on Cavalry, that's where I was raised. And then he was raised again, in his tomb. So you could say I was raised here, too. But he was never raised, not raised in the way you seem to mean. He did some raising, but he never had any raising done to him.'

   Prester leaned back, his confusion drooping onto his face. 'You've been frightening some of the people, with your clothes, your strangeness, and with you staying here and not leaving'¦'

   'I can't make the people think and care if they don't want to. What are they going to do, hang me from a tree?'

   Prester leaned forward. 'I've half a mind to do it myself, if you must know.'

   The thin man folded up his sunglasses and glared at Prester, his two half-open eyes distant and unsettling. 'Then why don't you go out and find your courage among the cowards,' he said, his voice a cathartic groan. 'Just remember that the only person you're killing is yourself.'

   Prester stood and stared at the strange little man before hurrying out, seeking the support of the townsfolk and the world he knew. The city was empty, except for a hymnal blowing in the wind, and Prester heard the faint sound of a distant organ. 'The carnival,' he remembered. 'They've all gone to the carnival.' Prester made his way through the empty streets, howling and whistling as though haunted by winter phantoms, the empty windowpanes and deadened chimneys grimacing at Prester's passing.

   The outer gates of the carnival were guarded by a pair of mimes. One was painted in white and yellow, wearing the white robes and halo of an angel. The other was in red and black, with little horns and a twitching red tail marking him as a demon. The two were miming a battle, but it was clear to Prester that they were friends'"their stabs and thrusts of invisible weapons were unconvincing. Prester brushed past them and went looking for Harlem, Dixie, and especially Courage, all of which had become tangled up in the sprawling red and yellow tents of the carnival.  A man in whiteface juggled a Bible and a law book, lighting them on fire as Prester walked by. A man dressed as an elephant rode an elephant in a suit, and five acrobats formed the pattern of a cross. He found himself inside the fortune teller's tent, where the crystal ball projected tarot symbols: the hanging man.  A monkey whipped a man in a fez hat who was grinding the organ.

   Prester gasped for air, his world was spinning and swirling around him. 'Courage!' he yelled. 'I'm looking for Courage!' The townspeople were too entranced by the trapeze artist to notice, and Prester Mathis began to run through the crowd, pushing the clowns and firebreathers aside. He felt someone grab his shoulder, and he twirled and struck them in the face, his fist an extension of his rage'¦

   Lying on the ground was Harlem, her nose bloodied and her cheeks covered in tears. Consumed by terror, Prester ran from her, his elbows and knees blasted by the smothering crowd, the  many-handed hecatonchires  that longed to consume his soul. Finally, he broke through the front gate, trampling the angel and demon mimes, screaming for repentance to the wind, his clothes shredded by the deadly carnival.

   Bleached by terror, Prester found Courage next to the railroad tracks, leashed to a small wooden trunk. Prester unleashed Courage and opened the trunk. A tweed jacket, a pair of plastic sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes laid within.

   Prester put his arm through the jacket and slid the glasses onto his nose. Throwing his preacher's collar to the ground, he lit a cigarette, waiting with Courage for a train to pass. The cigarette smoke lazily mingled with the falling snow, turning the abandoned collar an ashen grey. 'It doesn't matter where we're going,' Prester told Courage, hanging his head low. 'As long as it ain't here.'

Okay... what?

Where is this set? WHEN is this set? Why the hell were they going to lynch a random person who entered the church? Why wasn't he asked to leave? Who locks a person inside of a church?

I could go on, but I won't, hoping that the answer to these questions might shed light on this piece.

Quote from: Stargate525Okay... what?

Where is this set? WHEN is this set? Why the hell were they going to lynch a random person who entered the church? Why wasn't he asked to leave? Who locks a person inside of a church?

I could go on, but I won't, hoping that the answer to these questions might shed light on this piece.

A literal interpretation might yield the following answers to your questions. I didn't include them because I mean for the work to be more allegorical and expansive than this explanation would allow.

Where is this set? WHEN is this set?
For argument's sake, let's say the Deep South, any time after the Civil War but before the Civil Rights movement.

Why the hell were they going to lynch a random person who entered the church?
He's strange, he's weird. He's Jewish. Or he's black.

Why wasn't he asked to leave?
The townspeople didn't expect him to stay.

Who locks a person inside of a church?
Prester Mathis and the congregation of the Shackle First Baptist Church.

I don't particularly like those answers, though.

Well its nicely written that's for sure, your dialogue between the Prester and the short man was quite well done.

However I second Stargate525's comments, why would they lynch him? Makes no sense. I also didn't "get" the ending, he's terrified because his daughter has a bloody nose? So he decides to get hit by a train with his dog?

Aside from my difficulty with the ending it was very good, the description of the carnival was nice as well.

Again, assume the setting I explained. If a person during segregation went where they were not supposed to, lynching was extremely common in the Deep South.


Edit: The point of the lynch mob was to illustrate how people typically react to things they don't understand, as well.

In general, it sounds like you're trying to be allegorical. The problem is, I don't get it. Not only do I not get it, I'm confused from the very beginning, and you don't do a whole heap to help matters.

Coming from a religious background, people like that really, really don't shake pastors like that. If you were trying to extend that, it fails, quite frankly.

If that wasn't what you were intending the message to be, than what?

And extending on the lynching, have you ever been to small-town America? Very few people actually react with violence; usually its curiosity mingled with a small bit of apprehension. Comparing that to a lynching is patently ludicrous.

Quote from: Stargate525And extending on the lynching, have you ever been to small-town America? Very few people actually react with violence; usually its curiosity mingled with a small bit of apprehension. Comparing that to a lynching is patently ludicrous.

Have you ever been to the segregated South, sir?

Obviously, that question should be in past tense.

Well I sort of got what was going on. It happened so fast though and it seemed like people were overreacting. Not like is normal in reality but overreacting to the point of ludicrousness. Like someone shooting and eating their waiter for putting too much coffee in their cup. Examples being the lynch mob (perhaps you could clarify that the guy was black) and the running away because he bloodied up the girls nose. The writing was good but how the story was written out could do with some work.

Quote from: ElDoHave you ever been to the segregated South, sir?

Don't need to; it's not part of my cultural heritage.

Either make him black, place it during the segregated south, or both.

Quote from: Stargate525Don't need to; it's not part of my cultural heritage.

Either make him black, place it during the segregated south, or both.

I'm not going to.

That is, of course, your prerogative. You wanted my opinion, so I gave it. What you dow tih it is your business.

This is a really sad way of presenting a work, expecting criticism, and then treating that constructive comment in bad taste.

consider this my place holder for mauling your piece into something that could help you better it. Trust me. Tearing something near and dear like this apart is the only way you could ever move forward.

Heh Elven Doritos actually decided to leave the forums altogether, Teh_Az (he requested that his profile be banned from the site).  His open letter to the Guild is in the Dragon's Den.

Sad.