WriteAwayHoney
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 111
Are familiar with the Cher song, "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves"? This SRP begins with that songs; where it goes is up to you, the writers.
Wanted:
-- Gypsies, tramps, and -- yes, you guessed it -- thieves.
-- Need a FEMALE to write the role of Gypsy Rose.
-- Need others to create characters -- Roma and towns folk.
There is more at the bottom of this first post. Feel free to jump down there first, or read this post.
"Look mommy! Look! It's the circus!"
I lower the newspaper before me to find a little girl jumping in place at the curb's edge. I follow her excited gesture, looking past her to the caravan of Roma vardo rounding the corner at the far end of Main Street.
http://i1177.photobucket.com/albums/x345/WriteAwayHoney/Gypsies%20Tramps%20and%20Thieves/1-herwagon.jpg?t=1298084751
My mind is suddenly flooded with memories of days gone by thirty-three days to be be exact. Days filled with adventure and excitement, sorrow and despair ... love, and lust.
"Mommy, mommy, the circus, the circus," the girl continues, still bouncing near the road's edge like a human pogo stick.
"That's not the circus, sweetie," her mother says in a harsh, disapproving tone. She grasps her daughter's shoulders and attempts to hold her solidly to the ground, as if to quash her ignorant excitement. She glances my way with an expectant glare before pointedly saying toward her daughter but most definitely to me, "There's nothing of any good there for decent people, sweetie."
I lift the paper again, blocking the woman's view of me, but not my view of the train.
One by one, the wagons come into view until a total over two dozen vehicles -- bowtops and openlots and readings and ledges and burtons and unfinished frame carts -- stretch from the end of town almost to where I sit near the Town Square.
The lead vardo, a bowtop, is pulled unhurriedly by a pair of skewbald chestnut Gypsy Cobs, their casual pace set by the foot-bound man walking on the other side of them, just out of my view.
The memories continue to flood my brain; the knowledge I learned during that month -- the terminology, the language, the customs of the Roma people-- is suddenly there again. I remember gambling dice games in a scary thunderstorm; and watching fireflies from our beds on the ground beneath the bowtop's wooden frame; and -- as the little girl, whom I can still hear screaming out circus, circus, believed -- performances on the edges of small towns like mine, where the two-bits admission was more often than not just a fraction of what the participants would eventually see leave their pockets before the night was through.
But mostly ... I remember her.
My reminiscing is interrupted by the woman from the curb stepping directly into my view of the oncoming train. "So ... what are you going to do about this?" Her head tilts for a moment as her gaze settles upon the badge on my chest, before again setting it upon my own eyes.
I stand quickly, causing the woman to choose between backing a step voluntarily or getting bumped back by my rising bulk. I'm not preparing to act as she's encouraging; I simply don't like being bullied by those towns folk who consider 25 too young an age for an Acting Sheriff. I glance passed her toward the caravan, then shrug and inform her quite bluntly, "Nothing. They're not breaking any laws ... ma'am."
"Yet!" She snaps quickly. Then, just as quickly, she snatches her still jumping-in-place little girl and stomps off down the sidewalk, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, first at the vardos, then at me.
I look back to the lead vardo, then to the team pulling it. A smaller relative to the Clydesdale, the nearest of the Gypsy Cobs is close enough for me to get a good look at its skewbald pattern. Just below its spine and fore of hit hip tip is a tear drop shaped patch of chestnut. Tear drop ... tear drop? Another memory strikes me, this one a bit too close to home for my comfort. I lift a hand to my cover my eyes; the shape is obvious. I know this horse; this horse. Naw, it can't be, I assure myself. That was ... two thousand miles from here ... and four years ago! There're probably horses that look like that all over the country ... all over the world!
I look closer at the vardo itself ... and I begin to recognize the intricate carvings on the wagon's front and sides, even the distinctively hand carved spokes on the vehicle's wheels. No ... no! I look to the bowtop's canvas color and shake no in my mind. The color's wrong, I tell myself. The cover, it's green. It was blue. He would never change the color. He would rather sell one of his children. Then, as the vardo moves into the shadow of the National Bank Building and out of the harsh morning light ... Oh, my god, it's blue.
I begin glancing quickly between the other vardos. There are a few I have never seen -- newer ones, newlyweds, I know -- but the others I remember: Dr. Feel Good's, the Fortune Teller, Madame Tulip, Knuckle Breaker, and more. This can't be happening, I try to convince myself.
The lead vardo comes to a stop directly in front of me, as do the other vehicles behind it; and the man leading the entire parade steps around the his team and walks boldly up to the curb's edge and looks up into my eyes with a hard expression.
"Stefan Mason," I murmur in shock, so low I doubt he could have heard me.
The man nods deeply, almost a bow, then says with enthusiasm, "Good morning to you, my good Sheriff. My hopes are that you are enjoying this beautiful day."
I don't know what to say. It's likely the first time in my life that I haven't had something to say. Stefan Mason, Patriarch of the Mason Roma; the last time I saw him he flat on his back in what was already being called his death bed. That was four years and two thousand miles ago. How can you be here?
I realize he is staring at me expectantly, and I quickly respond, "Yes, good morning to you, sir ... as well." My mind is swimming with questions, some of which I would love to ask, others of which I dare not.
"Do I refer to you as Sheriff ... Sheriff?" he asked, giving me a wide smile, "Or do you preferred to be addressed by you surname ... sir?
He doesn't remember you. The realization explodes in my skull. He ... doesn't ... remember you! I decide not to lose my advantage and answer, "Sheriff is fine. Everyone around here ... that's what they call me."
They actually call me a lot of things, primarily varieties on young pup and too big for his britches, but I don't feel it necessary to impart that to Stefan Mason any more than I feel it healthy for me to reveal my any portion of my true identity. "Welcome to Oak Grove."
"Thank you, Sheriff," he responds, with another deep nod. He begins to speak again, then hesitates. He sets his gaze solidly upon my face, studying me for a long moment. I can see his memory churning within his skull. He squints his eyes against the harsh morning sun, then says, "You look familiar, Sheriff. Is it possible I have made your acquaintance in the past? Perhaps ... down South ... or the Great Lakes?"
Again, my skin crawls as I consider my possible answers -- the one of truth, and the one that sees me hanging from a tree at sunup. "I'm a home town boy, sir ... so ... unless you've been to Oak Grove before...?
He studies me another moment, then the smile again creeps across his lips. "I fear not. But ... since we are here now. My people need a rest ... one night, perhaps two . Is there a chance that there may be an empty field somewhere that my people--"
"I'm sorry," I cut in, even before I realize what I'm doing. You can't stay here, my brain is screaming. I adopt a regretful expression and explain, "The Town's charter doesn't allow for any form of--"
The squeak of a rusty hinge draws my attention to the vardo's front entryway, and there she is, the most beauty creature God had ever put on this Earth ... and I suddenly realize I feel unsteady, almost ready to topple.
We each stare at the other, she with an indeterminate expression that neither confirms nor denies that she knows me from Adam, and me with a jaw dropping look of shock.
I try to verbalize some greeting, any greeting, but only two thoughts are present in my brain, and neither seems appropriate for this moment. The first is that she is even more beautiful today: raven haired, fair skinned, perfectly shaped, and flawless in every way; and the second is How could you have simply walked out on this beauty ... disappeared, literally, by the dark of the night?
http://i1177.photobucket.com/albums/x345/WriteAwayHoney/Gypsies%20Tramps%20and%20Thieves/1GypsyRose-1-1-1-1.jpg?t=1298088521
And suddenly, the reason presents itself. Two tiny hands slap themselves upon the closed lower half of the entry door, and a moment later, she has leaned down, grasped, and lifted a girl of three or four years upwards onto her hip.
It is up to Stefan to break the silence, looking up to the beauty in the vardo and saying, "Sheriff, may I present Rosalee, my daughter--" And then looking back to me and speaking with a blunt, harsh tone, adds, "--and the little one is Gabrielle ... your daughter."
******************************************************
If you are familiar with the Cher song, "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves", you are already beginning to imagine where our Character's stories just might be heading.
My first invitation goes out to a female who would like to write the role of Gypsy Rose.
In addition, anyone interested in writing a Member of the Clan is very welcome as well. (It is my intent to write both the Sheriff and the Patriarch of the Clan, for now at least.)
As you can see, I have really laid down a strict back story ... yeah. (I haven't even selected an era to play it in, although I do sort of like the idea of the pre-80s, before the home computer and cell phone destroyed humanity. That's a joke ... sort of.)
This in not meant to be a historical work, not is it a true reflection of the Roma people. It is meant to be a fun SRP following the small rural town which suddenly becomes home for the people who, in the minds of the people who belong there, are nothing more than "Gypsies, Tramps, And Thieves".
Wanted:
-- Gypsies, tramps, and -- yes, you guessed it -- thieves.
-- Need a FEMALE to write the role of Gypsy Rose.
-- Need others to create characters -- Roma and towns folk.
There is more at the bottom of this first post. Feel free to jump down there first, or read this post.
"Look mommy! Look! It's the circus!"
I lower the newspaper before me to find a little girl jumping in place at the curb's edge. I follow her excited gesture, looking past her to the caravan of Roma vardo rounding the corner at the far end of Main Street.
http://i1177.photobucket.com/albums/x345/WriteAwayHoney/Gypsies%20Tramps%20and%20Thieves/1-herwagon.jpg?t=1298084751
My mind is suddenly flooded with memories of days gone by thirty-three days to be be exact. Days filled with adventure and excitement, sorrow and despair ... love, and lust.
"Mommy, mommy, the circus, the circus," the girl continues, still bouncing near the road's edge like a human pogo stick.
"That's not the circus, sweetie," her mother says in a harsh, disapproving tone. She grasps her daughter's shoulders and attempts to hold her solidly to the ground, as if to quash her ignorant excitement. She glances my way with an expectant glare before pointedly saying toward her daughter but most definitely to me, "There's nothing of any good there for decent people, sweetie."
I lift the paper again, blocking the woman's view of me, but not my view of the train.
One by one, the wagons come into view until a total over two dozen vehicles -- bowtops and openlots and readings and ledges and burtons and unfinished frame carts -- stretch from the end of town almost to where I sit near the Town Square.
The lead vardo, a bowtop, is pulled unhurriedly by a pair of skewbald chestnut Gypsy Cobs, their casual pace set by the foot-bound man walking on the other side of them, just out of my view.
The memories continue to flood my brain; the knowledge I learned during that month -- the terminology, the language, the customs of the Roma people-- is suddenly there again. I remember gambling dice games in a scary thunderstorm; and watching fireflies from our beds on the ground beneath the bowtop's wooden frame; and -- as the little girl, whom I can still hear screaming out circus, circus, believed -- performances on the edges of small towns like mine, where the two-bits admission was more often than not just a fraction of what the participants would eventually see leave their pockets before the night was through.
But mostly ... I remember her.
My reminiscing is interrupted by the woman from the curb stepping directly into my view of the oncoming train. "So ... what are you going to do about this?" Her head tilts for a moment as her gaze settles upon the badge on my chest, before again setting it upon my own eyes.
I stand quickly, causing the woman to choose between backing a step voluntarily or getting bumped back by my rising bulk. I'm not preparing to act as she's encouraging; I simply don't like being bullied by those towns folk who consider 25 too young an age for an Acting Sheriff. I glance passed her toward the caravan, then shrug and inform her quite bluntly, "Nothing. They're not breaking any laws ... ma'am."
"Yet!" She snaps quickly. Then, just as quickly, she snatches her still jumping-in-place little girl and stomps off down the sidewalk, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, first at the vardos, then at me.
I look back to the lead vardo, then to the team pulling it. A smaller relative to the Clydesdale, the nearest of the Gypsy Cobs is close enough for me to get a good look at its skewbald pattern. Just below its spine and fore of hit hip tip is a tear drop shaped patch of chestnut. Tear drop ... tear drop? Another memory strikes me, this one a bit too close to home for my comfort. I lift a hand to my cover my eyes; the shape is obvious. I know this horse; this horse. Naw, it can't be, I assure myself. That was ... two thousand miles from here ... and four years ago! There're probably horses that look like that all over the country ... all over the world!
I look closer at the vardo itself ... and I begin to recognize the intricate carvings on the wagon's front and sides, even the distinctively hand carved spokes on the vehicle's wheels. No ... no! I look to the bowtop's canvas color and shake no in my mind. The color's wrong, I tell myself. The cover, it's green. It was blue. He would never change the color. He would rather sell one of his children. Then, as the vardo moves into the shadow of the National Bank Building and out of the harsh morning light ... Oh, my god, it's blue.
I begin glancing quickly between the other vardos. There are a few I have never seen -- newer ones, newlyweds, I know -- but the others I remember: Dr. Feel Good's, the Fortune Teller, Madame Tulip, Knuckle Breaker, and more. This can't be happening, I try to convince myself.
The lead vardo comes to a stop directly in front of me, as do the other vehicles behind it; and the man leading the entire parade steps around the his team and walks boldly up to the curb's edge and looks up into my eyes with a hard expression.
"Stefan Mason," I murmur in shock, so low I doubt he could have heard me.
The man nods deeply, almost a bow, then says with enthusiasm, "Good morning to you, my good Sheriff. My hopes are that you are enjoying this beautiful day."
I don't know what to say. It's likely the first time in my life that I haven't had something to say. Stefan Mason, Patriarch of the Mason Roma; the last time I saw him he flat on his back in what was already being called his death bed. That was four years and two thousand miles ago. How can you be here?
I realize he is staring at me expectantly, and I quickly respond, "Yes, good morning to you, sir ... as well." My mind is swimming with questions, some of which I would love to ask, others of which I dare not.
"Do I refer to you as Sheriff ... Sheriff?" he asked, giving me a wide smile, "Or do you preferred to be addressed by you surname ... sir?
He doesn't remember you. The realization explodes in my skull. He ... doesn't ... remember you! I decide not to lose my advantage and answer, "Sheriff is fine. Everyone around here ... that's what they call me."
They actually call me a lot of things, primarily varieties on young pup and too big for his britches, but I don't feel it necessary to impart that to Stefan Mason any more than I feel it healthy for me to reveal my any portion of my true identity. "Welcome to Oak Grove."
"Thank you, Sheriff," he responds, with another deep nod. He begins to speak again, then hesitates. He sets his gaze solidly upon my face, studying me for a long moment. I can see his memory churning within his skull. He squints his eyes against the harsh morning sun, then says, "You look familiar, Sheriff. Is it possible I have made your acquaintance in the past? Perhaps ... down South ... or the Great Lakes?"
Again, my skin crawls as I consider my possible answers -- the one of truth, and the one that sees me hanging from a tree at sunup. "I'm a home town boy, sir ... so ... unless you've been to Oak Grove before...?
He studies me another moment, then the smile again creeps across his lips. "I fear not. But ... since we are here now. My people need a rest ... one night, perhaps two . Is there a chance that there may be an empty field somewhere that my people--"
"I'm sorry," I cut in, even before I realize what I'm doing. You can't stay here, my brain is screaming. I adopt a regretful expression and explain, "The Town's charter doesn't allow for any form of--"
The squeak of a rusty hinge draws my attention to the vardo's front entryway, and there she is, the most beauty creature God had ever put on this Earth ... and I suddenly realize I feel unsteady, almost ready to topple.
We each stare at the other, she with an indeterminate expression that neither confirms nor denies that she knows me from Adam, and me with a jaw dropping look of shock.
I try to verbalize some greeting, any greeting, but only two thoughts are present in my brain, and neither seems appropriate for this moment. The first is that she is even more beautiful today: raven haired, fair skinned, perfectly shaped, and flawless in every way; and the second is How could you have simply walked out on this beauty ... disappeared, literally, by the dark of the night?
http://i1177.photobucket.com/albums/x345/WriteAwayHoney/Gypsies%20Tramps%20and%20Thieves/1GypsyRose-1-1-1-1.jpg?t=1298088521
And suddenly, the reason presents itself. Two tiny hands slap themselves upon the closed lower half of the entry door, and a moment later, she has leaned down, grasped, and lifted a girl of three or four years upwards onto her hip.
It is up to Stefan to break the silence, looking up to the beauty in the vardo and saying, "Sheriff, may I present Rosalee, my daughter--" And then looking back to me and speaking with a blunt, harsh tone, adds, "--and the little one is Gabrielle ... your daughter."
******************************************************
If you are familiar with the Cher song, "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves", you are already beginning to imagine where our Character's stories just might be heading.
My first invitation goes out to a female who would like to write the role of Gypsy Rose.
In addition, anyone interested in writing a Member of the Clan is very welcome as well. (It is my intent to write both the Sheriff and the Patriarch of the Clan, for now at least.)
As you can see, I have really laid down a strict back story ... yeah. (I haven't even selected an era to play it in, although I do sort of like the idea of the pre-80s, before the home computer and cell phone destroyed humanity. That's a joke ... sort of.)
This in not meant to be a historical work, not is it a true reflection of the Roma people. It is meant to be a fun SRP following the small rural town which suddenly becomes home for the people who, in the minds of the people who belong there, are nothing more than "Gypsies, Tramps, And Thieves".
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