Category: Sensory Fiction

A Day on the Farm

December 30th, 2024

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

Daniel dunked his hand back into the numbing water. Sweeping it across the surface, his arm caught hold of twigs and leaves. He scooped them up over the edge of the container. The sunlight struck his bare skin in the most pleasant way; a flush of warmth after an icy plunge. The tractor hiccuped over a divot as it started toward the next tree, but Daniel kept his balance. Water sloshed over the rim and drenched his jeans. The man smiled with a shiver as the conveyor belt roared back to life and more branches, leaves, and cherries tumbled into the container with a splash. Daniel batted away the biggest branches, plucked away the smaller waste, and scooped up what remained at the surface when the belt stopped feeding. Few cherries dropped to the ground due to his precision and tact, the former a consequence of his experience and the latter a consequence of his personality.

Hydraulic groaning preceded the routine clang! and thud! of the machine’s claw tightening and clamping down on a trunk. More whirring sounded, accompanied by a fresh shot of the smell of motor grease, as another mechanism extended from the tractor and a huge, upside-down umbrella fanned out beneath the tree. Daniel stared at the process, enamored, as he always did. The machine began to shake. On his first ventures, the machine jostling him around was a nuisance, but Daniel had since grown to appreciate the relaxing quality of the experience. Instead of tensing up, Daniel allowed the vibrations to wave through his muscles in a sort of massage.

But if the machine shook, the tree trembled. Her branches and leaves whipped up a maelstrom of their own. A cascade of red swept down from her like silk sheets falling onto a bed. The wave of fruits plunked onto the umbrella with a beautiful sound; it was as if hail could land gently on a roof overhead. It could make Daniel snooze, but it was inseparable from the mechanical screeching of the tractor and the rustling protests of the tree.

When the shaking finally stopped and the claw returned to the tractor, the cherries and debris from the tree rushed down the chute. With the relative quiet, Daniel could hear the bouncing fruits, rolling branches, and whisking leaves with perfect clarity, a symphonic collaboration of nature’s bounty and man’s machine.

It was interrupted, as always, by the racket of the canvas folding itself up and pulling away from the trunk. That, itself, was interrupted by a belch of the tractor’s engine as the train pulled forward to the next tree.

As the conveyor belt rolled, Daniel sorted through its falloff. He treated it like Tetris, preparing now for what was coming in a moment. His present motions had been decided seconds earlier. Commitment to his predetermined actions enabled his efficiency and efficacy as a cherry sorter. The belt ran out of debris, so Daniel stopped it and looked toward the next tree, ready to admire the umbrella.

But he didn’t see it, and he didn’t hear it moving into position. Instead, he heard the engine break into an idle. Wilbur hopped out of the driver’s seat and walked toward the tree. Curious, Daniel quickly fished the last of the waste from the container. Finally at rest with the tractor, the water within settled into a flat sheet, cherries glistening under the surface. A ripple crossed it as Daniel leapt off his foothold.

Wilbur was now kneeling by the tree, inspecting something around the other side.

“What do you see, Will?” Daniel called. As much as he enjoyed the experience of sorting the cherries, he appreciated a lapse in routine. He stretched his limbs as he strode.

“Well,” Will spoke slow, and very low. It was a voice to which one pays careful, patient attention if they wish to hear what it says. “It looks like a fox hole to me. What do you think, Dan?”

Wilbur shifted as Daniel rounded the tree. Kneeling, Daniel noticed faded tracks. They weren’t perfect prints, or even scattered prints, but tracks nonetheless—dirt patted down in a way it couldn’t be without animal tampering.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Daniel agreed, puzzled by their choice of estate. “But they must’ve moved out. Nothing’s been around for a while.” A breeze fluttered the yellowing grass over the hole. Daniel stopped feeling the breeze, but he continued to hear it. “Wait, shh,” he said as he bent closer to the hole.

Weak whimpers grazed Daniel’s ear.

“Huh, I was wrong,” he said. “There’s definitely pups in there. But I’m sure nothing’s been around…” he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“D’you think Mom’s in there?” Wilbur asked. Daniel had him move in to listen, then explained their whining. “So you’re saying she’s not. And she hasn’t been for a while. You don’t think she’s lost, do you? Or worse?”

“Oh, man!” Daniel exclaimed, “I don’t believe foxes can get lost. But worse… I hope not.” He tapped a finger on his chin, staring at the hole. “If she is, we’d better help.”

“Well, what if I skip this tree for now, and we’ll keep an eye out for Mom. If she doesn’t show, let’s bring ‘em back some food. Say, what do fox pups eat, anyway?” Daniel gave him a punctuated answer as the men headed back to their positions on the tractor. The thrum of the empty orchard snapped away as the motor roared back to life and lurched the machine forward. Daniel swung onto his foothold as the tractor crawled to the next tree.

Daniel expertly plucked sticks and leaves out of the tank as it filled with bright red cherries. The water darkened as it shallowed, both due to the decreasing depth and to the orange attitude the sky adopted in the early evening. While the cool water was a welcome comfort in the heat of the day, it became frigid as the sunlight receded. Daniel’s lips began to shiver. The hair of his arms stood on end.

As Daniel was about to holler to Wilbur, the driver turned and shouted over his shoulder. Daniel couldn’t make out his words over the clanging and bustling. He didn’t need to. He smiled, finished clearing the last load of cherries, and rubbed his arms dry to stop his shivering.

They made for the tree with the fox hole. Daniel craned his neck around the tractor, desperate for a hint that Mom had returned for her cubs. His heart clung to hope as they neared, but he saw no change in the grass or dirt surrounding the den. Wilbur beat him there, kneeling and listening. He moved out of the way as Daniel approached. The men shook their heads.

“Got a box?” Daniel asked. Wilbur shook his head again. “Well, maybe they’re small yet.”

Considering how to pull them out, Daniel listened to the soft coos of the kits wafting from the hole. Gently, Daniel slid his arm inside, letting the dry dirt roll alongside the fabric of his sleeve and skin of his arm. His fingers met the young fur of a kit. Soon his fingers pet the meager body of the young fox. It seemed to purr as he cradled it within his grasp, finding the best position from which to pull it into the open air. The kit remained calm as Daniel cupped it, and, gently as he put his arm in, scooped it along the tunnel and into his arms. It was bony. Daniel thought it might fall apart in his arms, scattering its bones among the grass. Its fur was dull and weathered despite being kept inside a hole. Wilbur stared at the creature, shivering as he took it from Daniel’s care.

“Poor things probably would’ve died tonight,” he observed, solemn.

Daniel returned to his delicate chore.

With practice, Daniel gained speed in fishing the foxes out of their den. There were some snags. One kit, he found, was tucked behind a kind of corner. Daniel spent considerable time maneuvering the wild baby within the hole, positioning it so that he could extract it properly. On another dive, Daniel noticed that a root had sprung up. He grabbed hold of it and yanked, loosening up dirt all around the hole. A pocket knife sawed through the root and allowed for the last of the kits to be brought out. They were caked with dirt. Daniel brushed them off.

He listened at the hole for a good while. All he could hear was the cricketing of bugs in the orchard as dusk’s gray-orange light began to draw the color out of the field. Finally, he stood.

Wilbur held three on his lap, tucked under his shirt, as he drove back to his farmhouse. Daniel cradled two kits in his arms, snuggling them to protect them from the sloshing water. They cooed and breathed deeply. Daniel felt them pressing into each other to conserve what little was body heat they had left. Even dulled by malnutrition, their orange coats were striking—a beautiful stroke of nature’s portrait, complimented by the well-faring evening sun.

Wilbur’s farmhouse came into view. The machine rumbled up the driveway. The tractor popped and heaved as Wilbur put it to rest for the evening. Daniel was off before the tires stopped, hurrying the kits into Wilbur’s house. Wilbur trudged behind him.

Inside, Daniel balanced the foxes in one arm as he ripped up a blanket and formed it into a makeshift nest. He set the animals into the blanket. They swaddled themselves with their tails. Daniel leapt away from them to find a shoebox, which he stuffed with soft towels.

The screen door creaked on its rusty hinges as Wilbur pulled it open with a boot. He shuffled inside, settling the siblings into Daniel’s nest. Daniel turned back into the kitchen, shoebox in hand, and scooped up the smallest and weakest looking kits. He tucked them into the shoebox before settling in a kitchen chair. He watched them, counting their shallow breaths as their ribs rose and fell so barely. Wilbur set milk on the stove and cut some bites of jerky.

Satisfied that the foxes were going to be alright for now, Daniel picked up the landline and dialed the conservationists. A soft prayer rose from his lips while the phone rang.
A Time to Mend

February 11th, 2022

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus

The sweet bathroom air had wicked away the moisture, leaving the toothbrush to rest dry along the edge of the cup. Its bristles nodded more directly toward the bathroom door than when she’d left, but it was an imperceptible difference.

Above the toothbrush resided a mirror. The glass was as clear as to be invisible. By one angle, its smooth reflection of the baby-blue wall together with its white decorative rim rendered the silvered plane indistinguishable from a window. By another angle, the mirror captured the next room. From this angle, it recorded an ever-rolling history of the living room’s events.

Of particular interest to the mirror was the fireplace. The pale stones that surrounded the cavity stood apart from the blue-gray walls. Less often than so, the tongues of the fireplace danced between the wood, reaching vainly toward the white stones, able only to stain them with smoke. The gentle orange cast of the flames brought significant beauty to the mirror. Within the confines of the mirror the light blue paint would embrace the vibrant glow in a union of elegant gradients and strikes, as if a sunset were occurring during the brightness of noon. Though, presently, as it were, the fireplace rested.

The wood within creaked four times throughout the day, groaning at the same pain which caused the metal grating to retract into itself; wintery air.

A pen rested, ink stubborn from the chill, on a stack of papers. Its ends were perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets. The sheets were stacked precisely atop each other as if freshly cut on a factory line. The rest of the table was clear and fresh with disinfectant.

Plip… plip… the mouth of the bathtub watered.

The door opened, betraying no noise itself, but introducing the chit-chatter of friends in the hallway to the apartment. The conversation fell away in a smooth curve punctuated by the click, snikt of the door closing and the lock triggering.

Her warm breath whirled invisible before her mouth in the chilly room.

Her finger, skin tight to the muscle to preserve heat, brushed two switches in one stroke.

Tk, tk.

Suddenly the mirror burst to life, welcoming the writhing flames as they built their strength around the wood. The room, darkened by the evening and the gray walls, smoothed into the soft, orange light of a cabin in the woods as lamps rose to life. She casted shadows throughout the room as she navigated through, the mirror noting her familiar path toward the bathroom.

She cut around the corner, her face captured clearly in the mirror, all the dirt collected into streaks on her cheeks, congregated in the corners of her eyes, smeared on her forehead in the places she’d brushed with the back of her hand a dozen times that day. The mirror noticed the minute streaks of red that lined her face, microscopic abrasions that had drawn scarcely a full drops’ worth of blood when considered altogether.

Leaning over the bathtub, her dirty fingers pressed the lever. The rushing noise of water was met a moment later by the crashing of water on the bathtub floor. When the current began to steam and her skin was brushed by its warmth she flipped a switch to stop the drain. Then she stood upright before the sink.

She reached her hand to the handle. The cold, crafted metal sent a ripple up her arm. She sucked in her breath, turning the faucet. Bending to the bowl of the sink she washed a handful of water over her mouth, felt the dirt and grime rinse away. Rising, she took soap in her hands and cleaned them, remembering the first time she washed her hands after replacing a bike chain, the hours she’d spent scrubbing at the grease. Now, she was contented with ten seconds, confident that what would come off had come off.

Out came the toothbrush from the cup, and on its bristles squeezed a pea-sized blot of paste. She brushed her teeth in small, circular motions, targeting each tooth and being gentle over the gums. The taste and smell of lunch and labor, of a mouth anxious for water, was siphoned into the foam of the paste, ejected and washed down the sink. When she replaced the toothbrush to the cup she smiled, exhaled, and felt a surge of energy that spun her on her heel and put her back into the living room.

The crisp air of the bathroom dragged behind her, curling with the warming living room air. She stood for a moment in front of the fire place, allowing the heat to wrap around her as it rushed forth to counteract the little winter trapped in the apartment. She swayed there, enjoying the smell of the woodsmoke. Closing her eyes she saw late night campfires before her, the smoke shifting and driving itself toward her sister, then her brother, before they were both gone, replaced by college friends, now younger versions of themselves, now a vast fire clawing at an old couch. Grinning, her eyes fell open as she turned, reaching for the pen.

The mirror watched her snip it between her finger and thumb, twirl it like a cowboy’s revolver, and let it rest in that comfortable pocket of flesh between her thumb and her index finger. The ink flowed, broken up by the twirl and the rising air, and her mind fell into the pages, staining them with her elegant script. She peeled back the top sheet, crumpled it, and let it fall onto the table. Again the pen pressed against the paper, jumping and scratching fast across its grain, it and the ink and the page becoming her the longer she scrabbled prose into it.

The deep thumping of water pouring into itself began to rise as she lifted the pen from the paper, clicked it closed, and rested it with points perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets.

She bobbed into the bathroom, pulled the lever down, allowing the faucet to hiss back to rest. She sank into the water above her head. The dirt and grim lifted from her skin like hummingbirds from branches, whisked away by the soapy water. She exhaled, listening to the bubbles as they rose and bursted up top, smiling at her memories of the ocean, the waves crashing down on her and her friends as they struggled to surf. She remembered the violent smell of salt, now replaced by a relaxed rosy fragrance.
Concerning Colors and Stars

August 19th, 2021

Trigesimus Secundus Gradus

Ethan squirmed over the mattress of plump switchgrass, trying to settle. Several times he had felt comfortable only to be prodded under the shoulder by a rock or tickled on the cheek by a limp blade. The rock would need to be excavated from the natural bed and the loose blade plucked from its root and tossed aside. While Ethan wrestled with his section of the field, the sky above ripened into dusk.

At last, Ethan was satisfied with his creation. He inhaled deeply, first with his chest, then with his belly. He exhaled through his nose, allowing his eyes to fall open as they focused on the bath of colors spread before him. His vision of the sky was undisturbed by dark silhouettes of switchgrass blades; his labor plucking them up had guaranteed him a clear view. All there was for him to do was breathe and enjoy the purples and oranges and yellows far above.

He considered each of the colors. His eyes greeted them individually before his mind examined their contribution to the painting which they composed. As lone colors, he decided, most of them were rather dull. It was where they wove together amidst the clouds (blending here, sharply contrasted there, bitten by a shadow here, look how that cloud is tearing the orange in two!) where they became beautiful. Beautiful, not like a painting, but rather like a dance.

Then, there was nothing to do but wish the hues farewell. On Ethan’s left, night had emerged over the horizon. Its darkness sapped the other side of the sky of her color, ushering the redder tones away and replacing them with blues and grays.

Oh, Ethan observed, that is a new color. It’s wonderful. Even alone, it was surely not dull. Whatever should it be called?

He was distracted at that moment by a bright light which he had not noticed before. Now, it commanded his attention wholesale. It was the first star of the night, which was still maturing on the left horizon. Alone in the black bubble of night it shimmered as if shivering in a bitter, snowless winter. Ethan himself would’ve shivered if not for the warm zephyr that passed over him. His lips curled into a smile as he imagined that he had opened an oven door; that was how warm the gust had been. He listened to the wind as it played upon the switchgrass like fingers playing upon a harp.

Inside the oven was a freshly-baked apple pie. It looked as perfect now as it was every year. The fork broke through the flaky crust. The tender apple slices gave way to the prongs, now warmed by the pie filling. It steamed as Ethan brought the fork up to his mouth. It tasted as perfect now as

“—ever. Thank you so much, Dad,” Ethan said with a smile, setting the plate and fork in the sink.

Ethan sighed with contentment, the warmth of his body now sustained by his gratitude, undisturbed by any further breezes. His head rolled gently, creating a defined bowl in the switchgrass mattress. He delighted in a number of memories, savoring them like he had with the colors before. Unlike the colors, though, each memory could be cherished alone. His thankfulness grew even as the sky grew crowded with stars.

Ethan’s chest fluttered, as it sometimes does when one is falling asleep but does not want to. His eyes snapped open and he shook his head a little, quite surprised at the totality of the blackness before him; there remained no hint of the day to his right.

He explored the stars. The first one of the night was too well hidden among its peers, though he had tried to find it again. Ethan was not an astronomer, and he could not identify a single constellation. Save, of course, for the Dippers. Anyone could find the Dippers. To his eye, the stars have no particular order. They’re like clouds. Look at this bunch, here. Together, they look like a knight upon a horse. Though, I could easily tell them to be a butterfly instead. “They” is arbitrary, itself. Why not include these two, as well, and make an ice cream cone? He amused himself like this for quite some time before he decided that all the shapes were equally meaningless, including the Dippers. Together, the stars meant nothing. But the sun is a star. And without it, I wouldn’t be looking at these.

“Why is that star there,” he wondered aloud.

He was overcome by a chill. He crossed his arms and rubbed them with his palms. Warmed, he sat up to stretch, and for the first time since laying down, took in his surroundings. The field was blessed with the starlight (the moon was not out tonight). The subtle white of the stars grazed the grasses and trees and stones enough to make them visible. Color, of course, had dissolved into the atmosphere with the sunset. But the silhouettes remained. Ethan felt as if he was in a dream. Then, he looked further away, at the tree line on the edge of the field, and saw that it was black. A purer black than even the night sky, because the trees had no stars within them. Ethan tensed up, shifting his leg as if to spring himself up. He scanned the blackness there, imagining a great wolf bounding out of the black. The details of the wolf’s body were hidden from view; Ethan could only see it by the horrid blotch it made against the starlit grass. Ethan turned to run but was frozen. Closer and closer the wolf was until it leapt, finally, and Ethan—

Realized that he was holding his breath. He released it, and it shook. Feeling silly, he laid himself back down on the natural mattress he had formed, and turned his attention back to the sky.

That could happen, though. Ethan’s thoughts began to spiral. He worried for the future and feared what it held. There were worse creatures than the wolf conjured in his mind. What of it? He finally shouted to himself. He breathed several breaths and focused on the stars, putting his mind at ease again.

His eyes returned to the star. He stared at it for a moment, then two, then more. His mind was silent. Then, the star is there because it exists, and by existing it has obeyed. What does it care if it shines tomorrow or not over my world?

“We share the same duty.”

Category: Sensory Fiction

A Day on the Farm

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

A Time to Mend

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus

Concerning Colors and Stars

Trigesimus Secundus Gradus