Land of Sunshine

[unmerged(61559)]

Note: The following passage has me at the end of my patience. Even though I've re-drafted it several times, I still profoundly dislike it. I’ve had the event it portrays plotted into the story since I started writing, but I now feel like it is out of place and vague. If it leaves you with questions about why it is happening, then that is entirely my fault for creating a convoluted plotline and not being able to properly convey what is in my head. I'm desperate to get myself moving with another part of the story, however, so I've decided to post the passage as is.

10.​

Montana Wilderness: July 6, 1871
“You need to come along with me into town.”

Sheriff Tate keeps his pistol pointed steadily at the bandit’s chest. The lawman’s face is cold, unexpressive. His glare is hard and unforgiving. Though he may not want to spill another man’s blood, Tate is ready to do such.

The outlaw stands – unarmed – a few paces away. Badlands encircle the two isolated men in every direction for as far as the eye can see. The empty wilderness binds the weary strangers together, neither of them has anywhere to run.

“Don’t point that gun at me, you dirty piece of scum. . . You can't do this, you know that, right? Let's say you do bring me in and stretch my neck: there will con-se-quen-ces. . . There’s some ugly folk who would be put into a mighty uproar.”

Tate’s body betrays no lingering feelings of apprehension, no worry about how this situation will end. He knows. The terrestrial and spiritual consequences of his actions are not of much concern. Demons are born of every choice. The pistol doesn’t shake in Tate's hand as it might in the grasp of another, for it is not a weapon – at least so far as the sheriff conceives. The pistol is benign and lovely. In a gentle way, it solves all his problems.

“You don’t have to come in with me,” the lawman growls. . . The pistol goes off, and the bandit falls to the ground, “You can stay here.”​

 

[unmerged(61559)]

stnylan - Indeed, there is a confrontation on the horizon. That is, of course, unless someone sees the trouble coming and tries to stop the inevitable.

coz1 - Thanks. One thing I want to show using the multiple perspectives of my narrative is that the opening of the West had many consequences, both good and bad. Events that some people perceived as beneficial were absolutely devastating to another group.​

Anyway, I'm off for a few days to tour colleges. Thus, the quick update.

 

[coz1]

Ouch!

It read plenty well to me. If anything, I'd like to see a bit longer stretches of prose to help get to know these characters a bit more. But as it is, down and dirty does the trick - especially there.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

Thanks for the advice, Coz1. . . I tend to have trouble finding a balance between long, complicated prose and short, direct wording. That might be a result of the fact my favorite authors are Hemmingway and Dickens: polar opposites in writing style. Anyway, I'm trying to offer more insight into the characters with my next batch of updates.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

11.​

Fort Shaw, Montana: July 9, 1871
Men come west looking for freedom. They yearn to roam the land and cast away the oppressive chains of society. When these poor souls arrive in the wilderness, they are at first full of jubilation. Upon the endless plains and atop the boundless mountains they stand. A feeling of emancipation burns through their veins. Air tastes different, life smells sweeter.

Suddenly, the illusion fades. A man finds himself standing utterly alone in a strange land. The wide, open plains that once spoke to you of freedom now scream of desolation. So much emptiness should not be able to exist. Your mind needs to fill it with something. Gazing into the emptiness of boundless space, the human mind cripples trying to define its insignificant status.

Travelers to the brink – those who stand upon the plains and realize just how small they really are – tend to loose mental stability. They turn to crime, alcohol, and other sensual means to satisfy their urge to feel as though existence means something. The emptiness of the west makes a man feel as though he should not exist. Hardened settlers do unsavory things to prove they do.

Doc is different though. The inconceivable vastness of the West has not shaken his emotional core. This is, perhaps, due to the fact that the physician has already been driven to edge of sanity once before. Having clawed his way back to health after Gettysburg, Doc was numb to the world long before he made it to Montana.

Not all such experiences can be overcome, however. Standing at a distance, watching as Doc whips the feverish girl’s forehead with a cool cloth, Sheriff Tate asks, “Reckon she’ll make it?”

“No,” says Doc. He doesn’t have much hope. The poor lass – taken from the scene of a still undiagnosed massacre - is weak and fading fast. Maybe it is best her body dies. . . The mind may have already imploded upon itself.​

12.​

Great Falls, Montana: July 9, 1871
With a weary wave of his hand, Judge Wilks - uncharacteristically tired looking - ushers the captain into his parlor. The would-be politician pours himself a drink and flops down into an armchair. Captain Chester, forever a thirsty man, accepts the judge’s offer of a whiskey without hesitation. “I assume," Wilks inquires rhetorically as he directs conversation straight to the reason for this conference, “That you’ve heard about the ‘massacre’ up at Fort Shaw?”

Chester crumples his pox-marked face into an ugly scowl. He tightens he lips, as though to spit, but forgoes with the expression of distaste when he remembers where he is. In a low growl that does little to disguise his contempt the captain speaks, “Indeed, I have. That’s a nasty thing those Cheyenne did. They was probably looking to get off some easy revenge, figured attacking a couple of settlers would do the trick. They’ll regret their choice before long though.”

“Then you’ll be attacking them – the Cheyenne group people are saying killed the settlers?” Wilks gazes steadily at Captain Chester, who seems to falter under the heat of his host's burning pupils.

“Well, I reckon I will be eventually. I’ve got to wait on orders from out East, seeing as how the savages have been mighty restless lately, and the brass thinks the smallest spark is liable to send ‘em into an uproar. But, you know, once I’ve got the papers that say it’s my job, I’ll send those Cheyenne straight to hell.”

Wilks scoffs dismissively at the idea of waiting - such slowness will conflict with his plans, “That won’t do. We can’t wait for the fools back in civilization to decide what’s best for us. By the time your orders come, all of the northern settlements will be destroyed. Hundreds might die. . . What if. . . What if I order you?”

“Beg pardon, Mister Wilks, what do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, as it is I’ve got some magnitude of authority in these parts. I imagine that your superiors would accept any action you took as legal – or otherwise not of your fault – if I gave them my written word that said action was done by virtue of my judgment.”

Captain Chester feels the weight of uncertainty pushing down upon his chest, choking his breath and his will to act. The military man knows how to do only few things proficiently. Killing and taking orders are among his singular talents. Chester knows that - for sundry legal and procedural reasons - he must wait for dictates from his superiors. And... yet... the massacre was so horrendous. Finally, trepidation subduing his voice, he speaks, "I don’t know, sir. I don’t reckon the brass will take long to make up their mind on the issue of attacking. That Fort Shaw business will create a right stir.”

“We can’t afford to wait, Aldo! It must be done with haste… What would you rather risk: your job or the lives of hundreds?” Wilks' face shines with passion. He must have this happen. He must have it happen soon. Nothing else will do.

Finishing his drink, Chester stands to leave. With his back turned to the judge and his hand upon the parlor door, the pawn at last acquiesces to the puppet-master, “I’ll send word when it’s over.”​

13.​

A Wagon-Train, Moving West: July 16, 1871
“… and my aunt, the one who I said raised me up after my folks died, she passed on about a month ago. After I put her in the ground, I couldn’t much find anything to be happy about. Everybody was always and forever reminding me how sad a life I’d had, what with all my relations taking the plunge into death a few years too early… And, well, I suppose I just kind of got fed up with all that. So, I sold off the land my aunt left me – it was naught but a patch of infertile dust – and decided to ramble in a westerly sort of direction.”

Herbert’s meandering autobiographic speech sputters to a stop. He has said all there is to say about himself. It is a sad fact that, sparing only the most sordid details of his twenty-years of life, he has been able to tell the entire story in under a quarter hour. The young-man gazes off into the distance. The Appalachian hills are beginning to break. Soon their ancient contours will give way to the rolling plains of the West. Perhaps, Herbert hopes, he can find a more interesting life in that mysterious land.

Sitting beside Herbert is Cora. Her midnight black skin contrasts sharply with the verdant green tones of the surrounding foliage. A more discriminating white man – a more respectable person, some would say – might have been put into a fever of hatred by Cora’s dark skin. Herbert is not the type to make distinctions based on race; the traditional childhood lessons of the south related to this subject had inexplicably bounced off of his resilient moral center. Folks are folks, regardless of what they look like.

“Herbert,’ Cora says abruptly after a long silence has settled between the two traveling partners, “Do you think that there’s going to be anything out there for us? I mean, me and John. We ain’t the same as you. You’re a good, man. . . You’re a white man. I’m not of that particular heritage.”

Herbert purses his lips. He is not much of a man for complex questions, preferring much more the simple task of living in the moment. “Well,” he says in an unsure sort of quaver, “I believe you might make whatever you want of yourself out in the West. Your brother ain’t doing too bad right now. That is to say, he won you and him passage on this ‘ere train, which I suppose is better than being back where you was.”

Cora does not respond. She looks into the honest eyes of Herbert, the unheard of white man who had offered to let her ride in his wagon when her feet began to weary, and smiles. There are kind people in this world. They will lead her and John to providence.​

 

[coz1]

Both the promise and the despair for the West are brought out well in these passages. Nicely done. I particularly enjoyed the apparent reticence of the Captain, even though it was clear he too wanted to move - it's all about following orders and the proper chain of command.

 

[stnylan]

I agree, there is a nice blend of the good and the bad.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

14.​

Fort Shaw, Montana: July 17, 1871​

They say that when someone is clinging to the edge of life, their finger-holds upon the precipice slowly giving way, everything comes into focus. The toils of existence suddenly seem small and insignificant. Old enemies are shone in a different light, a shade of cleansing white that allows past transgressions to be forgiven. The process of dying – some poet once wrote – is very much the same thing as approaching the gates of purgatory.

For Christine Walker, none of this transpired. As she lay dying, the young girl did not suddenly understand the trials of her past or forgive her enemies. She had none. Her mind – as the situation was – could do little to prepare itself for death because she had barely been alive long enough to understand the fact that living is supposed to be a prolonged condition.

* * * * *​

Doc watches the girl slide in and out of consciousness with bated breath. Each time her eyes flutter to a close, he wonders if they will ever open again. He would give up hope in the girl if it wasn’t for her eyes: fine, sky-blue orbits that – when open – are wells of optimism. It is because of the eyes that he sits beside her bed and prays. . . Doc doesn’t believe in God.​

15.​

Montana: July 20, 1871​

The plains stretch, wide and empty, out in front of Chester for miles. They roll forward into eternity until the earth can no longer contain them. Then, as the ground struggles to hold up the immense acreage of nothingness that has been thrown upon it, the sky reluctantly begins to shoulder the heavy burden of space.

Chester wonders why, why they want this great stretch of naught. Everything useful – the gold and the good soil – is further to the south. This place is just a void. It’s the blank space God left on the canvas when he ran out of ideas. Nobody could possibly want this place. That’s why they gave it to the Indians.

After awhile of staring off into the emptiness, it dawns gradually upon Chester that this is also why they want the land back: the Indians desire it. Nothing human or worthy of respecting could possibly desire nullity like this place. This is a war of principle. The captain is happy to fight.

He orders his troops to attack the Cheyenne camp. . . There are not that many Indian warriors waiting for them to approach the settlement; it will be quick.​

 

[coz1]

I'd tell Doc, those very eyes are God's vown work. But perhaps he is in the process of realizing that and hopefully not just long enough to have that torn asunder again.

As for Chester, the man is doing his duty, but it is clear there is much more there in him. A complex man, to be sure.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

16.​

A Wagon Train, Moving West: July 21, 1871
Herbert gazes into Cora's eyes. She is a beautiful woman, graced with the simplicity of form that keeps a lady from attracting the wonton attention of fiends but still gives her comeliness. Sitting silently, yet contently, beside her, Herbert begins to fall desperately and irrationally in love. He eagerly pushes aside the nagging thought that nothing good has ever come to him from love.

* * * * *​

“A long time ago, everybody lived in Africa. That’s what my daddy used to say. He told me how, one year, the rain wouldn’t come, and all the crops and animals died. There were some folks in the village who wanted to leave the sacred land and go look for water in the northern wilderness. Though the village elders warmed them that abandoning the ancestral grounds would anger the Gods, a few people – desperate to find the rains again - departed anyway.

“They walked through the desert for years and years. Eventually, the wanderers found some water and settled down. For a spell, they lived happily. However, another drought betook them in later times. The leaders of the people declared that, even though everyone was now attached to the new land, they should again travel into the wilderness in search of water.

“And so developed a pattern. Times would get hard, and people would just put a few miles between themselves and their problems. All of the world’s great migrations have been based upon the idea that wherever you’re headed is a better place than where you are. . . I don’t figure this is true, but here I am moving west just because I figure that something in that direction will magically make my life better. . . Ain’t I a fool?”

* * * * *​

He twists her fine, silky hair into the contours of his coarse knuckles; he breaths deeply of her scent. Exaltation courses through his veins. It is the perfect moment. Rapture.​

 

[unmerged(61559)]

Coz1 - Doc is certainly a damaged sort of fellow. How much of his youthful optimism and faith in humanity are left to be reawakened are yet to be seen, I'm afraid. . .​

 

[coz1]

That was a lovely little scene which spoke to the larger theme of the AAR - migration and searching for a better life. Very nice.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

17.​

Fort Shaw, Montana: July 25, 1871​

Tate hasn’t been sleeping well. He lies awake at night, gazing thoughtlessly at the rafters, yet sleep evades him like a clever beast. The Sheriff chases the animal across vast stretches of dark and empty time but still finds no peace. Exhausted and sweating, Tate tosses and turns in his bed, haunted by waking dreams.

The flames dance before his mind's eye. He can recall in lurid detail all the blood of that long departed night. The lifeless bodies are strewn upon the dark ground. With each passing moment that the Sheriff’s thoughts linger on their decomposing state, the corpses become more frightful.

And, yet, Tate has never feared another man – living or dead – in his entire life. Not even the supposed wrath of God keeps the lawman’s brazen heart hunched over in apprehension. So why does this massacre drive a knife deep into his soul? Tate does not know the answer, so he stays awake from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn.​

18.

Unto ~ The Heads of Military, Washington​

Dear Sirs,

Subjects of great import have recently occurred within my jurisdiction. As required by the statutes of my duty, I am compelled to inform you of said events. I undertake this task with great regret, for the topics at hand are not of insubstantial consequence.

Firstly, allow me to inform you gentlemen – should you not already be aware – that a grave massacre took place within the town-stead of Ft. Shaw some weeks ago. This event, the local lawman informed me through letter, is quite obviously the work of the Cheyenne Indians, who have taken up residence upon the adjacent plains illegally.

Pursuant to finding justice for the men and women slain at Ft. Shaw, I dispatched one Captain Aldo P. Chester of your honorable army to forcibly remove the savages from our vicinity. I apologize profoundly if this order was in bad judgment. I feared for the safety of both the civilian communities under my jurisdiction and the assets of your army in the region.

Never the less, the campaign of Capt. Chester was a success. He reports that no less than five-hundred savages have been cleared from Montana on a permanent basis. This news is of great joy for me. However, I fear that the savages might rise again against my communities. I, thus, ask that you lobby the men of government with whom you are acquainted for a new governor in this Montana territory. The man who rules the region now is a hapless coward who flouts the authority of your military. . .​

With Respect ~ Judge Harold Wilks, Montana Territory, July 30, 1871​

19.​

A Wagon Train, Moving West: July 31, 1871​

“We’ve leaving, and that’s final.”

“No it ain’t. I don’t gotta’ listen to you, boy.” Cora sneers at her brother. Her hands are placed up her hips. She is consciously imitating the angry mannerisms of her mother, trying to cow her brother into submission.

“Now, you listen here, Cora. I promised myself when I let you come along that I’d take good care of you. I’m older an’ stronger than you, which gives me authority I reckon. I want to move on away from this traveling party, and I – by virtue of those points – need you to come along.”

“Well, I ain’t.” The young woman turns away from her brother in a huff and begins to walk back towards Herbert’s wagon. He is waiting for her a ways up the road, eager to continue on the way West. John glares at his sister’s back. His mouth is contorted into an ugly scowl and deep, whiskey bred angry burns in his eyes.

“That piece a’ white trash ain’t gonna’ be keeping you on much longer… He’ll get tired of you soon. Then you’ll wish you came with me and the other folks of your kind.”

John storms away, back to where a group of black-skinned travelers are gathering their goods. He struggles to understand why Cora is staying with the wagon train. How can she possibly keep on with them after Jeremiah - the racist, gutter bred leader of the party - shot a poor child straight through the head? Oh, the blood! What had that boy done wrong? He had been black and in the bigoted white man’s way.

But John can’t force Cora’s hand. She is very much like their mother, strong and independent. If – after hours of fighting – he hasn’t won this battle with her, then it’s safe to say he won’t win the war. As the young man gets his horse ready for departure, he prays for his sister and her white man. May the West bring them peace.​

 

[unmerged(61559)]

Coz1 - Thank you, sir! Those are exactly my main ideas. I'm glad to hear they are coming out through the writing.​

 

[stnylan]

Racial hatred cuts both ways. Nice confrontation there in the final scene.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

20.​

Montana Territory: August 2, 1871​

A cloud of white dust rises off the barren plain. Heavy in stagnant air, the grit swirls gradually back down onto sun-drenched ground. Meanwhile, a stagecoach – an intruder upon the rolling and restive Montana sands – rattles off into the distance. Impatient to escape the undulating wilderness, the carriage flees toward the ever elusive horizon.

Just as the plains are beginning to recover from the disturbance of unwanted travelers and the soil is settling, a group of dark-cloaked horsemen rise out of the nothingness of the badlands. They pound across the prairie with mischief on their minds. The stagecoach, recently departed for the fabled land of California, is their prey.

The sun slowly sinks; the brigands draw closer to their victim, which desperately sprints toward the refuge of civilization.

A gunshot rings through the thick air, and the carriage slows to a halt. There is no use in trying to outrun the shadowy riders now. Only acquiescence will save the coach’s travelers from early death. As such, money changes hands, and heads are kept bowed. The victims are careful not to look their robbers in the eyes, lest they have to lie later and say they did not perceive any features of the brigands.

While the light and dark wage a bitter war for control of sky, the outlaws prepare to depart from the scene of their crime. Suddenly, stupidity seizes control of a coach passenger’s mental facilities. A knife is drawn, and a highwayman is stabbed deeply in the hand – blood comes forth like a stream.

Anger wells up in the injured brigand’s heart. He allows his gun to let loose it deadly cargo, and a river of blood erupts. The outlaws and a life disappear into the darkness.​

 

[unmerged(61559)]

stnylan - Thank-you, sir. I'm glad you enjoyed the scene. ​

 

[stnylan]

And that is surely a scene showing how fragile a thing civilisation is out on its boundaries of the world. There is, thinking of it, something of an otherworldly atmosphere to the scene as well.

 

[unmerged(61559)]

21.​

Great Falls, Montana: August 2, 1871​

The ancient stories - those which transcend the chains of written word and live on only in the memories of withered sages - tell that a tribe is never truly defeated until all of its women lie prostrate on the ground: cold and lifeless. However, once the last drop of crimson vitality has seeped from the veins of the sinless mothers, all hope is lost. Dreams of victory are scattered. Not even divine hands can forestall defeat then.

Given these intrinsic truths, Tamílapéšni’s mission is a doomed one. The campaign has no chance of success, for all of his tribe’s life-givers have been struck down by the white intruder’s guns. Even if the Cheyenne warriors can inflict revenge upon their foes in battle and survive volleys of cruel bullets, they will be gradually destroyed by the menace of time. No young men will be born to replace the departed souls, and the race will fade into the recesses of history – a bloody footnote in the American saga.

Never the less, the Cheyenne men will fight. They have nothing else to do, for they have been robbed of dreams. . . A hopeless mission is a better fate than a listless life, so Tamílapéšni leads his men forward.

Unlike past times of battle, however, the Indians do not encounter a powerful enemy force as they move toward the settlement. Tamílapéšni notes this fact with satisfaction. If the whites may slaughter innocent women and children without evoking the wrath of their God, then his warriors should be able to do likewise. The cycle of death spins forward.

22.​

Fort Shaw, Montana: August 2, 1871
“I ‘spect that normally I’d be much ‘bliged to come along, but I’ve got the girl to be looking after, ya’ know.”

“Damn the girl, Doc. . . There’s some might violent people hiding out in Cheyenne country, and I ain’t going to fetch ‘em less I got another body with me. Sal backed out – the coward reckons it’s a trap a some kind – and you’re the only other man in town sober enough to carry a gun. . . Come on! These bastards shot a man! They did the fellow square in the head after he stabbed one a' them in the hand.”

Sheriff Tate spits contemptuously onto the sandy ground and throws Doc a glare that is roughly - but not quite – comparable to the physician’s furious scowl. The lawman rubs his gloved hands together to ward off the morning chill, a devilish invader that has rolled in from across the British border during the night. Eventually, having weighed his obligations as a citizen against the needs of his current patient, Doc curses and agrees to come along.

“Fine, I’m a gonna’ go ‘an get my gun.”

As he watches the doctor disappear back into his dwelling, Tate feels a tinge of regret. If he wasn’t so sorely in need of a pasty, then he might feel bad about this.

* * * * *​

Time looses its worth in the wilderness, where minutes meld together and days drift away. A man can wander across the badlands for weeks but fully believe that he has been removed from civilization for only several nights. Madness – slow and friendly – is born of such delusions. Thus, travelers of the western void are rarely untouched by the corruptive hand of insanity. . . Come to think upon the subject, some degree of lunacy is produced by any journey. You can’t abandon a safe-feeling place without leaving something of yourself behind.

For Doc, there is precious little of him left to leave at home. So much of what he once was – son, brother, husband, and father – has already been lost to the fire. Similarly, the tricks of the wilderness have a minimal effect upon Tate, who rides silently and resolutely keeps his eyes averted away from his partner. He rarely feels anything anymore. This numbness, the lawman accepts, is one unfortunate but deserved consequence of a life lived in sin.

Thus, quiet and wary of the nothingness that encroaches upon them from both out and in, Doc and Tate plod forward in search of men they’d really rather not find. As dusk approaches, they perceive the precipitous slopes of a majestic mountain range in the distance. Doc has never traveled this far to the east, and he wonders what lies beyond the snowy slopes. Surely only more pain and suffering.

Eventually, the lawman and the doctor stop their unlucky quest for the evening and hunker down upon the endless plains for a night of cold and fear and loneliness. . . Doc dreams of anathemas that creep out of the darkness and kill for fun and pleasure. Tate does not sleep. He stays awake and stares at the stars. . .

* * * * *​

With a start, Doc awakens in the wee hours of the morning. His eyes slowly adjust to the semi-darkness of dawn. A few steps away from where he lies, the physician can perceive a large, dark being: Tate. Just as he is about to slide back into the uncomfortable arms of sleep, the reluctant deputy perceives something strange.

A thick liquid seems to be dripping from the black figure onto the sandy ground. Is it blood? Yes, it must be; Doc smells the familiar tinge of sanguine upon the air. . . Suddenly, a realization strikes the tired man like a ton of bricks, and past events begin to come into unwanted focus.

A single question has plagued the remote settlement of Fort Shaw over the past months. How come numerous robberies and killings have been occurring regularly despite the vigorous work of a trustworthy sheriff? The answer: the lawman has not been censuring himself for his own wanton crimes.

Doc reaches surreptitiously for his gun. Unluckily, the pistol makes a ruckus as it is extracted from its holder. Tate turns around at the noise and notices what his former ally is doing. The lawman's - the outlaw's - hand, which is bloodied by the wound of one of his victims, flies toward a nearby weapon. . . The two men are upon their feet in a second.

“So. . . How’s this gonna’ go,” asks Doc, his gun as armed and ready as that of his foe.

“Well,” replies Tate laconically, “I figure you’ll try and shoot me, I’ll shoot you, and then I’ll go back to town and tell all them good folks you was behind all those nasty killings.”

“They won’t swallow yer lies for half a second.”

“Oh, really?” snarls the outlaw, “You don’t think those good folks ‘ll believe that you been killin’ and robbin’ once I tell ‘em all about what you did back during the war? . . Don’t look so surprised, boy; I've known all about you and those Confederate prison camps for months. . . Heh! You make me like Christ arisen far as morality goes!”

Doc keeps his gaze steadily fixed upon Tate. What does his past matter now? In the West all sins are forgiven.

“Well,” the doctor says finally, “This is getting interesting, I reckon.”​

End: Act One​

 

[unmerged(61559)]

stnylan - I don't think you can really call what Tate, Doc, and company have going on in Montana "civilization." It's really closer to being a lawless anarchy. The goal is a perfect society, however. . .​

As a general note, I had a bit of a hard time constructing this latest scene. I had to push forward the stories I've made over the past month in a really radical way, and I had some trouble doing that in a manner that does not feel rushed. Any suggestions a reader might have on how to make the passage make more sense would be welcome.