Joey Ripley (standard:fantasy, 3039 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Dec 15 2005	Views/Reads: 3351/2306	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A meeting with a boy who's father was murdered. Such a boy. (A rewrite) I'd really appreciate hard, critical feedback.

Joey Ripley 

Copyright Kelly Shaw 

Walking up the hill passed the old school, now a museum, I enter the
cemetery under the wooden arch and dally among the many and scattered 
graves, softly blanketed under winters whiteness. The sun pokes its 
first fingers through the branches of a sturdy Oak, its last leaves 
fallen under the weight of winter's onset.  It's a scene of wild 
serenity, and I'm surrounded by the whisperings of history. 

Deeper in the cemetery a dog sniffs, pawing at the snow, piling up a
mound of darkness, and I wonder if his owner is there. I'm struck by 
the youthfulness of the dead people. Dying, it seems, happened a lot 
between the ages of thirty and forty, and though many of these people 
were not pioneers, they are the descendents of pioneers. 

I stand for a moment listening to the melting snow dripping into
puddles, glad I'd left the hotel early enough to beat other tourists to 
this picturesque scene. I wonder how many cemeteries are named ‘Boot 
Hill' in California. 

“Who you looking for, mister?” The question is asked. 

I turn to find a boy looking up at me, his hands set deeply into the
pockets of his shabby overalls, drained of their blueness, and the 
buckle straps hanging loosely over his shoulders. His hat sits lightly, 
a ragged chunk missing from its rim, like maybe a mule had bitten into 
it, hiding most of his straw textured hair. His cotton shirt, 
candy-coloured, has no collar, just three buttons at the neck like 
those vests my grandfather wore, and hardly warm considering I'm 
wearing an overcoat, and a scarf I've wrapped tightly around my neck. I 
feel drawn into his wild blue eyes, even though dull, the kind of eyes 
you see in a lion when you visit cages in zoos. There, but not quite 
alive. 

“I'm not looking for anyone, lad.” I reply. 

“I just figure anyone looking at graves on a mornin' this cold has to be
looking for someone special. Thought maybe I could help.” 

His last remark intrigues me. 

“You mean... you know all the folks buried here?” 

“Mostly. That one there is Frank Liberty,” he nods his head in the
direction, “died 1910. Next to him, Mathew Parker, died when he was 
just ten years old, hit by a runaway wagon.” 

I have a sudden urge to brush frost from the headstone, checking his
accuracy, but don't. 

“Do you live here in town?” I ask, making conversation. 

“I used to, mister; my dad ran the livery yard, until Jake Springer shot
him dead.” He is without emotion, not looking up from the ground. 

I almost choke. Should I laugh? If that's a joke it isn't very funny. 

“Really,” I say, as if I'm supposed to say that, or at least act
surprised, just to encourage him. 

Even so, I'm thinking, it's a strange thing to say. Perhaps this kid
loves to check out obvious tourists, tell them a story for a few bucks. 
He doesn't move from the spot, doesn't look up to see if I'm interested 
in his revelation, no, he remains quite still, looking down, his arms 
quietly at his side. 

“Aren't you cold? Sure is sharp out here today.” 

“I've been colder, mister,” he says, turning to walk away. 

“Wait... is your dad buried here?” I ask, so intrigued by him. 

He turns to face me and without speaking raises his arm, pointing. I


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