I’ve really let this place down over the last few months. I’m sorry for that, but there are reasons why. I’ll glance off some of those when my 2021 Assessment posts later this month.
I’ve created a lot of new material, but as part of various blog tours, it’s been hosted elsewhere. I figured I owed you guys something, so here it is.
I’ve been dabbling with a side project for months, but not taking it too seriously. It’s a space opera that could lead to a trilogy. I have about a third of a novel so far, but today I decided to start another one.
This plays into my two at a time history, and since I’m at a wall on one project, this gives me a way to stay somewhat productive. I never really do this, but here is the first effort from today’s work.
***
The single-room farmhouse stood deep in the forest. Leaves covered the sagging roof, and clumps of moss anchored to the sides. The door dangled from a single hinge and allowed leaves to blow inside. Rays of sunlight shone through the roof and dust motes swirled in the beams. The windows had long disappeared leaving the room open to weather from multiple directions.
The old bed was nothing more than a frame and rusty springs after all these years. A rack of simple farming tools hung on the south wall, and a cracked old trunk stood at the foot of the bed, it’s brass fittings long ago turning green.
Light swirled unnaturally between the chest and tool rack. It moved in and out of form, but eventually resembled a human, casting its own light into the dark corners of the cabin. Moving about the room it grew in size, then staggered like someone wounded. With great effort, it managed to open the chest.
After pulling on cracked leather boots, denim jeans, and a plaid shirt it rested, looking for all the world, like someone had placed the clothing on the floor in a pattern.
The following day, the spirit pulled on leather gauntlets and a long canvas duster, then chose a sickle from the tool rack. As it grew in strength, it went outside to cut dried grass which it stuffed down its pants or into its shirt. Insects took up residence in the stuffing, but it kept working. As the sun set, it walked back inside, only its head missing from the apparition. The area of its head glowed red in the cabin’s darkness like some kind of angry god.
The spirit removed an old burlap sack from the trunk, then pulled it over his head. He twisted the bag until a face fit over the front. Triangular eyes glowed like the fires of hell from behind the mask. The loosely stitched up mouth also glowed, and served to strengthen the terrifying visage. He pulled a thick, hemp drawstring closed around his neck. Next he selected an old canvas hat from the chest. It had been carefully waxed to retain its shape in all kinds of weather. It had a broad, bent brim and tall, pointy crown, like those traditionally worn by witches.
A canvas trug was the last item inside. He spread that across the bed springs, then piled all the tools on the square of material. There were handles on opposing corners, which he grabbed to create a carrying case for the sickle, a scythe, sheep shears, grafting knives, saws, axes, and hatchets.
He kicked the remaining door off on his way outside. Pushed the crown of his hat back toward his shoulders, then stared at the nightime sky. “Now where is that Goddamned hat living these days?”
***
Would you read something that started this way? I’m calling it “The Midnight Rambler,” after a favorite song of mine. With that last bit of dialog, and the book title, you can tell where it’s going to fit in my catalog.
Interaction along the tour has been great, but there’s something to be said for meeting all of you here. Leave me a comment. Do you have an ear-worm now?
Entertaining Stories 