by The following is a sneak peak of a novella (a short novel/long short story) that I am working on. The sneak peak isn't that great 
The actual story is much better written, but I will not post it until it's completely done or else it will give things away. I suspect it will be around 50 pages single-spaced typed when completed, so it will be around late august that I will probably finish.
Summary:
In the early nineties, a conservative town in the southern states is shocked when twelve-year old Mark Frasier is accused of raping a younger boy, his best friend Harley Longhurst. Ashes to Ashes explores the devestating and consuming effects of guilt on the human heart, and how it destroys the lives of two young boys and leaves their community with a rude awakening.
Ashes to Ashes
A short story by Tess aka Aichu
Prelude:
“Mark Frasier, please step up to the
witness stand.”
A murmur swept through the crowd as
the round-eyed boy made his way to the front of the courtroom, dark hair
bobbing up and down. When he turned to lay his hand on the bible, they could
see that the entire left side of his face was black and blue.
As Mark settled down in the
witness’s chair, the prosecutor rose. He was barrel-shaped and red in the face
with a heavy-set jaw. The flesh around his neck was loose and gathered above
the too-tight collar of the man’s dress shirt.
“Mr. Frasier did you or did you not
understand the evidence that was just presented?” he addressed Mark.
“Yes sir,” the boy replied.
“Yes what, boy?”
“I understood, sir.”
The prosecutor walked over to the
witness stand and produced a clear plastic bag.
“These are the semen-stained
undergarments that are alleged to belong to my client,” he said, waving the bag
in Mark’s face. “Can you identify the semen as your own?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a correct answer, Mr.
Frasier.”
“I don’t know, sir,” repeated Mark,
“All semen looks the same to me!”
The prosecutor’s scarlet flush
spread to his ears. A snicker came from several directions, promptly silenced
when the judge hammered his gavel.
“Mr. Crosby,” the judge ordered the prosecutor, “Will you please refrain from
asking the defendant rhetorical questions?”
Mr. Crosby nodded. “See, boy: the DNA testing is telling us that these stains here
match your DNA, so they must have come from you. Would you
care to explain how your semen ended up on my client’s undergarment?”
“I can’t explain, sir.”
“Would you—.”
“What I mean to say is,” Mark
corrected himself, “I can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember?” murmured Mr.
Crosby. “Can’t remember…”
He paced in front of the courtroom,
pausing every so often to glance back at the defendant. Finally, he came to a
stop in front of the witness stand. Without looking at Mark, he asked, “Mr.
Frasier, will you please give us your account of what went on July the third of
this year, on the afternoon of the incident?”
“I went out just after lunch to meet
my friend Harley in the woods, as we normally do each day.” The young boy’s
voice was steady and collected. “When he wasn’t there, I began to worry and
headed over to his house. His ma and his pa and his two sisters were out
watching the football game— it was the Wesleyans versus the south-end Baptists,
I think. When I went inside, Harley called me up to his room. He was sitting on
his bed, looking an unhealthy pale.”
Having up till that point been
thoughtfully stroking his chin, Mr. Crosby suddenly paused. The mood of the
courtroom grew heavy as Mark continued to tell his story. “He says to me, ‘My
dog went and ran out on me just now. It ran out into them woods’. I asked him
if he was feeling well, and he pleaded a favor from me. ‘Can you go look for my
dog in them woods out there?’ he says. ‘I’d go, but I’m not feeling in the
right’. So I did as he asked— if it had been my dog, I’d have worried to. It
was near supper by the time I headed back to Harley’s place to tell him I
couldn’t find his dog. When I got there, gentleman Hines,” he pointed to a man
in police officer uniform seated in the audience, “had his cruiser parked in
the driveway. I went inside the house and he was speaking to Harley’s ma and
she was crying. That’s when they arrested me.”
Mr. Crosby was quick to jump into
cross-examination. “So, you’re saying that you weren’t present at the time of
the reported incident.”
“No sir, I wasn’t.”
“Son, is there any reason my client
would flat-out lie about something so serious to both his parents and the
authorities?”
“I don’t rightly know,” replied Mark.
“We weren’t getting along that well up till then, but I wouldn’t guess it’d
push him to get me in trouble. Harley isn’t that kind of kid.”
“You and I both know that you’re
bigger that my client here. Big enough, do you reckon, to throw him to the
ground and hold him there?”
“Probably. Harley’s just a scrawny
prawn for his age.”
The audience muttered.
“Mr. Frasier, we have medical
evidence of a rape on our hands. Can you try once more to explain how your
semen ended up on my client’s shorts?”
“I can’t, sir...”
The murmur in the background grew
angry.
“Mr. Frasier, did you or did you not
engage in sexual activity with my client?”
Remaining hushed, Mark raised his
hand to his face and touched his swollen cheek.
Veins on the prosecutor’s forehead
bulged. He grabbed Mark’s chin and forced the boy to look up at him. Pointing a
finger at the prosecutor’s table, Mr. Crosby asked, “Did you rape Mr.
Longhurst, boy?”
The small, dirty-blonde haired boy
who was seated at the prosecutor’s table stiffened.
Still, Mark said nothing.
“Did you rape Harley Longhurst?!”
Mr. Crosby screamed in Mark’s face. “You better answer this time around, you
little asshole!”
“No,” Mark choked.
The courtroom was momentarily
silenced by the sound of Mr. Crosby slapping Mark across his good cheek. “When
are we going to start hearing some straight truth from you, boy?”
Suddenly, the audience became a mad
buzz of angry shouts:
“Lock him up!”
“That was the bible you swore on,
boy!”
“Guilty!”
“Order, order!” the judge was
hammering the gavel with unprecedented furry. “This is a trial, for the Almighty’s
sake! Mr. Crosby, any more trouble out of you and I’ll have you permanently
dismissed from this court!”
His warning came too late, though.
Already, half the crowd has broken past the bailiff and was rushing at the defendant.
The actual story is much better written, but I will not post it until it's completely done or else it will give things away. I suspect it will be around 50 pages single-spaced typed when completed, so it will be around late august that I will probably finish.Summary:
In the early nineties, a conservative town in the southern states is shocked when twelve-year old Mark Frasier is accused of raping a younger boy, his best friend Harley Longhurst. Ashes to Ashes explores the devestating and consuming effects of guilt on the human heart, and how it destroys the lives of two young boys and leaves their community with a rude awakening.
Ashes to Ashes
A short story by Tess aka Aichu
Prelude:
“Mark Frasier, please step up to the
witness stand.”
A murmur swept through the crowd as
the round-eyed boy made his way to the front of the courtroom, dark hair
bobbing up and down. When he turned to lay his hand on the bible, they could
see that the entire left side of his face was black and blue.
As Mark settled down in the
witness’s chair, the prosecutor rose. He was barrel-shaped and red in the face
with a heavy-set jaw. The flesh around his neck was loose and gathered above
the too-tight collar of the man’s dress shirt.
“Mr. Frasier did you or did you not
understand the evidence that was just presented?” he addressed Mark.
“Yes sir,” the boy replied.
“Yes what, boy?”
“I understood, sir.”
The prosecutor walked over to the
witness stand and produced a clear plastic bag.
“These are the semen-stained
undergarments that are alleged to belong to my client,” he said, waving the bag
in Mark’s face. “Can you identify the semen as your own?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a correct answer, Mr.
Frasier.”
“I don’t know, sir,” repeated Mark,
“All semen looks the same to me!”
The prosecutor’s scarlet flush
spread to his ears. A snicker came from several directions, promptly silenced
when the judge hammered his gavel.
“Mr. Crosby,” the judge ordered the prosecutor, “Will you please refrain from
asking the defendant rhetorical questions?”
Mr. Crosby nodded. “See, boy: the DNA testing is telling us that these stains here
match your DNA, so they must have come from you. Would you
care to explain how your semen ended up on my client’s undergarment?”
“I can’t explain, sir.”
“Would you—.”
“What I mean to say is,” Mark
corrected himself, “I can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember?” murmured Mr.
Crosby. “Can’t remember…”
He paced in front of the courtroom,
pausing every so often to glance back at the defendant. Finally, he came to a
stop in front of the witness stand. Without looking at Mark, he asked, “Mr.
Frasier, will you please give us your account of what went on July the third of
this year, on the afternoon of the incident?”
“I went out just after lunch to meet
my friend Harley in the woods, as we normally do each day.” The young boy’s
voice was steady and collected. “When he wasn’t there, I began to worry and
headed over to his house. His ma and his pa and his two sisters were out
watching the football game— it was the Wesleyans versus the south-end Baptists,
I think. When I went inside, Harley called me up to his room. He was sitting on
his bed, looking an unhealthy pale.”
Having up till that point been
thoughtfully stroking his chin, Mr. Crosby suddenly paused. The mood of the
courtroom grew heavy as Mark continued to tell his story. “He says to me, ‘My
dog went and ran out on me just now. It ran out into them woods’. I asked him
if he was feeling well, and he pleaded a favor from me. ‘Can you go look for my
dog in them woods out there?’ he says. ‘I’d go, but I’m not feeling in the
right’. So I did as he asked— if it had been my dog, I’d have worried to. It
was near supper by the time I headed back to Harley’s place to tell him I
couldn’t find his dog. When I got there, gentleman Hines,” he pointed to a man
in police officer uniform seated in the audience, “had his cruiser parked in
the driveway. I went inside the house and he was speaking to Harley’s ma and
she was crying. That’s when they arrested me.”
Mr. Crosby was quick to jump into
cross-examination. “So, you’re saying that you weren’t present at the time of
the reported incident.”
“No sir, I wasn’t.”
“Son, is there any reason my client
would flat-out lie about something so serious to both his parents and the
authorities?”
“I don’t rightly know,” replied Mark.
“We weren’t getting along that well up till then, but I wouldn’t guess it’d
push him to get me in trouble. Harley isn’t that kind of kid.”
“You and I both know that you’re
bigger that my client here. Big enough, do you reckon, to throw him to the
ground and hold him there?”
“Probably. Harley’s just a scrawny
prawn for his age.”
The audience muttered.
“Mr. Frasier, we have medical
evidence of a rape on our hands. Can you try once more to explain how your
semen ended up on my client’s shorts?”
“I can’t, sir...”
The murmur in the background grew
angry.
“Mr. Frasier, did you or did you not
engage in sexual activity with my client?”
Remaining hushed, Mark raised his
hand to his face and touched his swollen cheek.
Veins on the prosecutor’s forehead
bulged. He grabbed Mark’s chin and forced the boy to look up at him. Pointing a
finger at the prosecutor’s table, Mr. Crosby asked, “Did you rape Mr.
Longhurst, boy?”
The small, dirty-blonde haired boy
who was seated at the prosecutor’s table stiffened.
Still, Mark said nothing.
“Did you rape Harley Longhurst?!”
Mr. Crosby screamed in Mark’s face. “You better answer this time around, you
little asshole!”
“No,” Mark choked.
The courtroom was momentarily
silenced by the sound of Mr. Crosby slapping Mark across his good cheek. “When
are we going to start hearing some straight truth from you, boy?”
Suddenly, the audience became a mad
buzz of angry shouts:
“Lock him up!”
“That was the bible you swore on,
boy!”
“Guilty!”
“Order, order!” the judge was
hammering the gavel with unprecedented furry. “This is a trial, for the Almighty’s
sake! Mr. Crosby, any more trouble out of you and I’ll have you permanently
dismissed from this court!”
His warning came too late, though.
Already, half the crowd has broken past the bailiff and was rushing at the defendant.
