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    • "I'm sorry Clara.  Maybe I should have made my intentions more clearer but I thought you were and are still too young.  To say that I am pleased about your marriage would be a lie."   Clara frowned but that sounded turned into a glare. And after she had just told him she wished for the very best for his new law career.   "The only thing I can offer you is that I hope that your husband will do his best when the future comes and that you won't suffer if he doesn't."   She was not going to stand here and be hurt like this. Oh, she wanted to say more but what good would it do and what difference would it make? None.   "We are done here. I will never make the same mistake again of trying to talk to you. We have nothing further to say. Good day to you, Deputy," she said thru gritted teeth then stepped to one side of him and kept on walking.  
    • Brendan flew over the crest of the rise on Fiona with the rest of the riders and tried to pick out the rustlers from where their gunshots were coming from. It was hard, with the intermittent flashes from the gunfire giving only a little clarity to their attacker's figures. He rode bent low on Fiona's neck and stretched his pistol out in front of him. Somewhere on the way to the paddocks he had lost track of José, but there was no time to worry about him now.   A spattering of gunfire came from ahead and in the resulting light, he caught sight of a fellow on a horse across the paddock. He pointed his pistol and squeezed the trigger once. In the dark, with the motion of his horse, and the uncertainty of the whole situation, there was no way of knowing if his shot would even hit. He shot again in hopes that he would at least hit something.   Shooting in the dark was a lot different than shooting at rattlesnakes or beer bottles in the daytime, and neither of those things he'd practiced on ever shot back. These men would shoot back.
    • Brendan chuckled. "Dream? Nah, my dream is to lay around all day with nothin' to do. But this ain't so bad." Now that he thought about it, he didn't really have a dream. Besides being rich someday. There wasn't anything wrong with drifting, but it certainly wasn't the dream.   He led the way into the stable and pointed to an empty stall. "That one can be hers. Oats are in the corner over there if she wants any." He pointed this time to a large sack labeled "oats" stacked on several others like it.   Then he went over to his horse's stall. "This here's Fiona. She's mine." He patted her chestnut nose fondly and entered the stall to start putting her tack on. He was in no hurry to get out on the range, and José's horse needed some time to be fed and watered, so he took his time and even brushed Fiona's coat a bit before putting the saddle on.   "You ever ridden for a place this big before?" he asked, glancing back at the Mexican. It was highly unlikely. Steelgrave had one of the biggest places in Montana and probably in the whole of the territories. Probably.
    • Jay was listening, Addy was pleased with that, and he seemed to understand what she was trying to say, and that made her happy, but then he hesitated and she tried to explain a bit more.   "Yer different, Jay, I didn't never think any man could..."   But then he took her hand and was kneeling in front of her, and her head started screaming, 'No, no, no...don't...'  But her heart was soaring, and her head eagerly followed...   "Addy, do you want to become my wife?"   "I do that."  Grinning, she nodded and squeezed his hands, then pulling him up into a hug.  As much as she had resisted, she'd been wanting this for some time, and she knew he had too, so as quiet and simple as this was, it was all she'd ever hoped for.   And since the words had already been said, it was time to kiss, so she did!   @Jack        
    • Miriam duly reported her sale of the pair of gloves so that her employer could put it down in the books, accurate accounting was important in any business such as this one. He seemed pleased but suddenly informed her he had a 'tip'.   "Oh? Of course, sir," she duly nodded.   "Whenever you sell kid gloves, ask the customer if they'd like to buy some special cleaning spirit of  turpentine, special offer 50 cents!" He rummaged on a shelf and brought down a fancy bottle of blue glass.   "Fifty cents?" that seemed expensive to her reckoning, though she could hardly claim any expertise in such things.   "It' just ordinary turps, 10 cents a bucket from the general store, but some ladies'll buy anything as long as it comes in a pretty container."   "I see," she duly noted though to her it did seem a bit.......dishonest? Still he was the boss, far be it for her to challenge him, "I will remember that in the future, sir."   "Hmmm, Miss Lutz. Was she trying to get you to go to Church?"   Miriam had not seen that coming alright.   "She mentioned how active my friend, Arabella...you know...Miss Mudd...the one who came with Miss Mundee...........is in their church and encouraged me to come sometime to hear and see for myself'" Miriam dutifully answered.   "I told her Papa would not approve."  And to her that settled the matter then and there.  

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Posted (edited)

Mature Content: Yes - Suicidal thoughts. Also: Self-indulgent post warning!

Author: Arabella Wentworth (Aged 38)

With: All Alone.
Location: Apartment of the Theatre Critic Charles A. Hanson, New York.
When: Night of 31st December 1899 – 1st January 1900
Time of Day: 13 Minutes after Midnight.




It was cold out on the balcony, but when Charles put one of her cylinders on for the amusement of the gay set, it was high time to get some fresh air. He always did that: he’d get her to play some moving Chopin piece at the piano or sing a little bit of operetta in her pure bel canto voice; then juxtapose it by playing one of her more tawdry cylinder records, this best of friends and worst of critics (for he always gave her terrible notices). It was his little joke. Inside, she heard the horn of the cylinder player hiss into life, a tinny voiced announcer sounding, as he always did: “Nuthin’ But a Coon, Cakewalk, sung by Arabella Wentworth, Edison Records!” then an umpah-ing band and a tinny version of her own voice, murdering some tin-pan alley ditty in an exaggerated version of her usual southern accent.


She looked over the edge. It was a long way down to the snowy sidewalk and her stomach lurched. She remembered something, oh, a long, long time ago: way before she was the much sought-after ingénue of the New York stage of the 1880s (Lord, those rôles were tedious!); even longer before she’d become older and plumper and been relegated to second or third billing as the gossipy maid, or the annoying aunt of the heroine (those rôles had been much more fun!). She was thinking of the couple of years, way back in the 70s, when she’d ended up in the middle of Montana in some God forsaken place called Kalispell and… hadn’t she tried to kill herself by jumping off a roof then!? She looked down now at the wind swirling on the paving stones many, many feet below. She was fat and nearly forty. Her stage career, she felt, was coming to an end; recording for Edison only paid some of the bills and, since she had fallen out with Mrs Mudd three months ago, she was alone.


Yes, once upon a time she had decided to jump off a roof and become absorbed into the crystal clear blue of the pure Montana sky; now she considered a leap into the cold black ice of a New York night. Why hadn’t she jumped, that last time? She couldn’t remember exactly, the fellow’s name, all these years later: but she vaguely recalled a sort of beautiful, almost sexless angel sweeping down from heaven and saving her. Hmph. Her fifteen year old imagination had probably invented that.


And yet, as she steeled herself for the inevitable, Jesus reached out His hand to her again.


“It is a very long way down and your skull will actually crack open like an egg when it hits the street. How very awful you will look.” Said the voice behind her.


Arabella knew. This was the one. She didn’t need to look at the woman. She already knew her, knew that she would have the same orderly mind and intellectual capacity of Clara Lutz, no that had been her married name – to Arabella she would always be Redmond, Clara Anne Redmond; and she would look a little like her first real love had looked, the first time that they had seen each other together in the mirror in the dress shop, long, long, long ago; and she would have the same sexual allure of La Mundee, she who had taught her so much, without really trying, about performance and about life.


There could have been others along the way, but the Lord had no need to surpass those three, those three great loves of her life, they had set the bar and set it too high to surpass. She had thought her life quite over and all used up, but as she turned to see Miriam, who hated these sort of affairs and had clearly come just for her, she knew that its second chapter, and its second century, had just begun.


"Hello, Mrs Mudd." she said.

Edited by Javia (see edit history)
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Posted (edited)

Diary of Theatre Critic Charles A. Hanson, New York, 9th July 1892.


Saturday: Took the trolley car up to Brooklyn to see about the whole Denburg business and then walking down Broadway with Milner bumped into A------ W-------- of all people. I have not seen her on the stage these two years and she is grown quite plump and looks her age. To think! Five years ago I was so in love with her that I was given to write her bad notices, in the vain hope that she would take some notice of me.


She was arm in arm with another woman, and I was astounded to notice that they were dressed exactly alike, as mothers are sometimes wont to do with twin children. She expressed great happiness to hear that I was married, but remembering my past infatuation with her, I must admit a strange lurching feeling in my stomach at it.


The name of the other woman I cannot recall, as after the initial introduction, AW invariably referred to her as 'Mrs Mudd' in that awful Southern accent of hers that she has never quite shaken. 'Mrs Mudd' is a comely enough, but rather too shy and retiring a woman, of about AW's age but unfortunately with all the features of the Jew, which rather inclined me against her. After we parted, I expressed my surprise at both the garb and behavior of the two and Milner quite laughed in my face, explaining that "Mrs Mudd" was AW's 'wife' and always had been.


Imagine my mortification, not only at such a disgraceful arrangement between two women, but that I had once almost been foolish enough to either propose to, or throw myself off Brooklyn bridge for, such a disgusting creature! I pretended that I had always suspected such a thing to Milner, but he could see how shocked I was and laughed all the way down to Avenue A, where we parted, he continuing to laugh to himself and utter 'poor old Charlie' as he went. Should I see AW again, with or without her (my stomach roils to even sully the noble word with my pen) 'wife' again I shall certainly cross the street, no matter how many cablecars I have to dodge.


Hippodrome Theatre tonight to see Justin Tobin in The Palestinian. It will be dreadful. 


Diary of Theatre Critic Charles A. Hanson, New York, 28th September 1895.


Saturday: Read an article in the New York Sun about bicycles and that , in the considered opinion of the NY Medical Board, their riding is both healthful and beneficial. However, they also report that the wearing of bloomers by lady riders is not, so I shall tell Lavinia to put hers away.


Milner's end-of-tour party in the Evening: they had taken the show to Europe as well as touring the States and were understandably 'cock-a-hoop'. Took Lavinia with me, which I instantly regretted, it was a very demi-monde affair and she hated every minute of it and, indeed, let me know it!


Wentworth there, of course, making the usual histrionic nuisance of herself, either laughing uproariously at nothing at all, or crying hysterically over very little indeed, banging out tunes on the piano (something called 'Ragg-time') and standing on her head and showing her spindly legs with a most embarrassing cry of 'not bad for thirty five, hey, Charlie'.


However, I did have some conversation with her 'wife' Miss Kaufmann, whom I found, once her initial reticence to speak is overcome (AW calls her 'The Sphinx') to be a most fascinating creature. She is Jewish, a native of this city, and speaks very cleverly upon all manner of subjects. I felt not only a great attraction to her physically (Lavinia was throwing me dirty looks all through our talk, I might add) but a sort of fellow feeling for another soul caught up in this hurly burly world of theater without being an actual part of it. It is perhaps well that she is inclined as she is, or a fear that I might have tried to make passionate love to her under the very nose of my wife!


Back at 1am, terrible row with Lavinia.



Edited by Javia (see edit history)

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About Sagas

Sagas of the WIld West is a roleplaying game set in a fictionalized version of the town of Kalispell in Montana territory. Our stories begin in 1875 and are set against the backdrop of actual historical events.Sagas was inspired by the classic television and movie westerns. Our focus is on writing, storytelling and character development.

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