I went into the LS virtual wildscape to rustle me another story. Stories are like wild mustangs; I have discovered that if you feed one of these bucking fiends sugar cubes that have been soaked overnight in Jack Daniels, they become your pal and will follow you anywhere (hint: never feed a wild story mustang sugar cubes soaked in gin, it brings out their mean side).
You must take care inside the LS virtual wildscape–for there are “things” in there–things that you dare not speak to; things that have gotten out of their various enclosures and are things that would think nothing of leaving your bones to bleach under the ruthless sun.
The Foote Ranch is a huge spread, it lies adjacent to the equally impressive Sheehan Ranch. Both of these story ranches are immense, tidy, thriving, and brilliantly organized (unlike the decrepit Allison Cat House, whose crumbling gate is slathered with ignored eviction notices). I slinked into the Foote Ranch paddock and brought out something that kicked me three times in the head, twice in the heart and once in the ass, for good measure. If it hadn’t been for the Number 7 sugar cubes I would have come out alone and as strewn as a road-killed opossum.
Mourning Becomes Her is one of the several pieces that Mr. Foote has had published on the site. I think that this harrowing and moving tale of an errand of friendship is a good example of Mr. Foote’s quality. The author has a singular style. I have yet to pin down exactly how it happens, but his words take the shape of an interior cadence and there’s a signature sophisticated aggression in his work that keeps you off balance and somewhat anxious. Certain images return within the text, if not always as words, they come home in memory: the sheriff with the grease caked under his nails; the woman’s wicked blue eyes.
Gotta return Mr. Foote’s mustang to his ranch before he puts the law on me. So you’d better come up and have a look at Mourning Becomes Her before she goes home. I’m getting a bit low on enhanced sugar cubes, and there ain’t much of me left for her to kick.