Emmet Dunnick imagined god spoke to him as an equal. Emmet never listened, nor replied. He wasn’t looking to be confidant or confessor to the divine. Besides, Emmet knew there was little to be gained from such unburdening; forgiveness was fleeting and fickle. As far as Emmet was concerned, god did indeed have much to answer for, he just refused to be the one to grant him absolution.
One word, then another. That’s all Montgomery Stevens asked out of life. Montgomery had been a successful shop owner (selling mostly books, newspapers, and various sundries), but was now comfortably retired with a military pension. This allowed him time for his poetry, but he was a failed poet. If he’d been dependent on his writing to survive he would have starved years prior. Every day Montgomery wrote, and most days he completed at least one poem.
Montgomery remained unpublished.
Angels and saints warred with demons and devils in the head of Silas Strayhorn; always in conflict, seldom silent, and only at rest when he slept or passed out drunk, a chorus of voices compelling him to action.
Silas was a man of great needs and questionable tastes. He toiled from sunup to sundown. No menial task or manual labor was below him. Poorly educated and prone to maladies of the mind, Silas found comfort in liquor, immoral women, and religion. The god of Abraham was his god. Born and raised in an orphanage outside of Iowa City, Iowa, Silas moved to New Hampton in 1889 at the age of thirty-four. There he was a day-laborer for anyone who required his services as a well-digger or dairy-hand. He also performed lumberjacking, basic carpentry, stone hauling, animal husbandry, and harvesting.