Thanks, twitter. Thanks to you I got inspired to write the start of a 1940′s Amish noir romance story. Thanks a LOT, twitter.
By Adam P. Knave
I sat in the corner of my barn, whittling. Whittling the way my father taught me, the way his father taught him and so on, down a long and proud line. Jacob, my neighbor, came racing to get me.
“Jebediah!” he exclaimed, skidding to a halt with loose hay sliding under his hard black boots. “You should come see this.”
I may have acted faster, if I didn’t know that Jacob often fell prone to panic. Why, it was only last summer when he roused many of us in the middle of the night because of a bird that had assaulted a dog. Granted, that wasn’t something you saw every evening, and the dog belonged to Jacob, true, but still. I followed him out, regardless, because he was my brother in our Lord and I would endure his behaviors as he bore mine – in silence.
As I rounded the corner, I forgave Jacob all of his indiscretions. I saw her. I felt the urge to take my hat off, press the brim to my chest and stare. She influenced me in ways I would have to beg forgiveness for, from our Lord. I thought the type of thoughts that only lesser men, or boys, are allowed to think.
Was I not a community leader? Was I not proud, Amish, and of age? These things were all true. I, Jebediah Wyse, was the town’s blacksmith, a horse owner and the keeper of my bother. I would not find myself be-fouled by an outsider’s illusions.
And yet she transfixed me as if witch-like. She churned the very butter of my soul. She invented, and used, zippers on my mind. I was useless.
For his part, Jacob simply tugged on his sleeve and cleared his throat. I came back to my senses, whispering prayers of forgiveness to myself and glanced upon her form once more.
She stood tall, six feet at least, a giantess in our midst, as she stepped out of her automobile. Her long blonde hair bounced around her upper arms, curved and be-magiced by some process I could not fathom. Around her form she tightened a dress, I assumed it was a dress, of some material that looked both wet and dry at the same time. The red of it was distracting without the tightness to remind all creatures great and small of her physical sex.
Along the back of her dress, I saw as she turned to slam the door of her car, lay a long straight black zipper. I knew, without hearing, that it would hiss when opened. My fingers ached to tug at that forbidden technology, to reveal the skin underneath, to explore the prohibited fruits before me.
No, self-control reasserted itself. I nodded at her, forcing myself to look elsewhere than her cloth constricted form. I settled, instead, on her dark green and mud-splattered automobile.
“You like the car? It’s a new Buick Eight,” she said, mistaking my location of gaze for interest, “it’s the new ’41 model,” she finished, sounding clearly as if this was something to be admired.
I nodded in response. “My horse is around eight years old,” I offered in return.
She laughed the laugh that only heathens can master. The sound that bubbles care-free from the pit of their being. Of course, with her, I could choose to watch the air expand and fill her flesh. I forced myself not to, but my mind’s eye chose otherwise.
“So, then, Ma’am,” I asked. “What can we do you for?”
“I was sent here,” She walked, carefully, over to me. Her long red heeled shoes didn’t wobble. She was a pro. Taking a factory rolled cigarette from a small silver case and lighting it, she inhaled and stared down at my own five foot ten frame. “By a dead man.”
(There might be more – but it isn’t easy writing 1940′s Amish Noir/Romance, guys…)