Tag: rural

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.
Avian Procession

July 3rd, 2023

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

“What’s the mouthfeel of that spider?” To you and I, of course, it sounded like a series of gobbles and an avian wail of inquiry. To the gaggle, it hardly needs mention, the sounds read exactly as reported.

“Gooey, squishy… moist. It provides a good coating. Crunchy at first, naturally,” came a chipper reply (a cluck and a purr, nonsense to us. And such would all of the following speech sound to our ears). Mergle swallowed the spider and apologized to her mother for speaking with food in her mouth. Even for turkeys, it’s an unbecoming habit.

The inquirer happened to be the master of the turkey flock. She was leading her comrades through the lake-adjacent forest, their ancestral home. Their claws still sunk into the white ground-above-the-ground for most of the route, though the white shroud had slipped off of the trees by now. Some of the trees were regaining their feathers. Over the past few days, the slow-falling sky had turned to fast-falling sky, drenching the forest in the smell of fresh eggshell-to-be.

Thus, the turkey maidens (and him, who I will introduce later) marched toward the cherished Clearing Place. The turkeys of this valley preferred to congregate there first, for it was the fabled nest of the First Hen. Her spirit presides, in purified form, above the valley, visiting the gaggles and gangs now and again to usher in reiterations of the cycle. At present, she was hidden, prancing behind the stagnant, gray, brush piles of the sky.

The master bird stopped with a cluck, prompting her comrades to meander into an imperfect line alongside her. Stretched before them was the scratchy, black, frozen-not-slippery-river on which the Smelly Things roared. The hen purred, her head snapping to pause over segments of the river. It was quiet, today, and no Smelly Thing passed them by. The river gleamed, and in the glimmering she made out the writhing forms of long, pale bodies. Her tail ruffled.

“Let’s have ourselves a snack! The frozen-not-slippery-river is peaceful and fruitful, it’d be a shame to leave it unharvested,” she whooped. The others cheered with gobbles and purrs of their own. Claws planted on gravel, the hens stretched over the blacktop to snap up worms, spreading themselves further along the length of the road. Hearing the plucking of her brood grow distant, the master stretched her neck, kicked her strong legs, and strutted onto the hard, scratchy surface. She snapped up three worms in rapid succession, purring loudly.

The other hens, necks tired from reaching to the center of the road from the shoulder, plodded after her, seeing that it was safe to stand upon the frozen river. The spoils were bountiful, and each turkey ate her (and his) fill. The master garbled and trotted to the opposite edge of the road, whereat she ushered her compatriots back onto the pebble-filled frozen-not-slippery-river bank. Satisfied that the road was clear, she stooped her neck and took a mouthful of pebbles into her beak, swallowing them carefully. She trotted up and down the row, making sure the rest had consumed their portion.

Desperate yammering cut through the silence. He squawked and flapped his feathers loudly, generating great alarm among the hens. The turkeys snapped their heads upright and scanned either side of the river, bodies tense for fear of a screaming-fast Smelly Thing.

Instead, they saw a Spinning Thing carting a featherless biped.

“Such a ruckus could drive us to danger! Will your alarm ever match the threat, Freggens? Or are we condemned forever to bear the clatter of your feeble spirit at every drop of a leaf?” the master bird scorned him. The bird who had wailed, with a gray eye and patches of exposed skin, hung his skinny head and waddled to a distant edge of the group of hens, who danced away from and gobbled at the biker as he safely, slowly, passed them by.

“Hup, now! That’s plenty of refreshment and featherlessness for now. Form up!” The master bird reordered the gaggle. As a unit, they trudged back into the forest, leaving the frozen-not-slippery-river behind them. Freggens made his way along from the rear, pouting as he went.

“This way, dearies,” the master bird chirped, ushering the gaggle up a hill. Stepping through the white ground-above-the-ground was not preferred, especially uphill, but the wise master bird knew that the crest of the hill would have a very shallow coat. So the gaggle bore with her, careful to trace each others’ steps, carving a path through the forest. Freggens, mulling his mistake, chose to forge his own path behind the hens. He did not deserve to walk the easy trail blazed by their marching line.

Such went the pack, cooing and gargling various conjectures and positions on topics political and apolitical alike, with Freggens distantly trailing, stinking of scorn, for many an ebb of wind.

Mergle chittered and growled. Her mother stopped, and the hens began to circle up. Freggens, head down, didn’t notice the change in pace, and continued trudging along.

The master bird scanned the forest in the avian way, snapping her neck to and fro, angled in curious positions. She caught a sliver of orange fur whisking behind a trunk. She hollered and flared her wings, arousing the rest of the gaggle, who made themselves large and loud. Freggens, shocked by the display, leapt into the air with so little control that he landed on his side.

The sliver of orange popped up from behind the trunk, revealing itself to be a creature lesser in size than the master bird herself. It had orange fur, and green eyes, and sharp fangs and a long tongue, and its name was

“Miss Vue, you villainous wretch!” The master hen called. Her voice began with a bite of rage, but gave way to relief by the end of her greeting.

“Margelgel, my friend! What a fine gaggle you have found under your wing,” Miss Vue replied, strutting toward the pack.

“They are. Quite attentive, you found? And ready for a fight?”

“Quite, quite. They are well-prepared for predator response. The hens, that is,” Miss Vue glanced at Freggens, who was now stumbling back to his feet. Margelgel followed her gaze.

“Indeed. Thank you for the drill, as usual, my dear,” she gobbled. The other turkeys relaxed, returning to their smooth, striding formation. Freggens, twice now embarrassed, lagged further behind than before, wattle like a waterfall dragging along the ground. Miss Vue joined the group, chatting with Margelgel about the waning winter, and other topics apolitical.

When they came upon the second frozen-not-slippery-river, Miss Vue gave her regards and slipped back into the woods. Margelgel clucked, and the turkeys formed a tight, three-bird wide line. When she decided the Smelly Things were far from their path, she began to trot onto the black ground.

“Come along, dears,” she encouraged, “the Clearing Place is but a few paces hence. And they’ll be no more excitement ‘fore we reach that sacred plot.”

Uplifted, the birds began to skip along the road. All but the six at the end of the lines failed to hear the Smelly Thing passing behind them, and even those six paid it no mind, for it was, after all, behind them.

The gaggle pranced their merry way along the familiar path. They celebrated as they poured out from the trees into the Clearing Place. It was beautiful, even with the still-gray-sky above. Turkeys from many other packs were streaming in to the place as well.

Margelgel spun on her claws to count her gaggle, haphazard-like, for confident she was that her hens were safe. But, her count was off. She seized in cold, eyes wide, and looked her group up and down.

“Where, pray-tell, is Freggens?”
Accident Prevention

March 17th, 2022

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Mel felt his fingers begin to slip over the steering wheel. He tightened his grip and gave it a slight turn, allowing the car to slow a few miles per hour around a gentle curve. As he mouthed the words to a song, hiding his voice from his ears, he noticed the tight line of trees on either side of the road. They were split intermittently with cracked, pitted driveways in no better condition than the shoulder of the road itself. A driver like Mel could better discern the lanes by deep channels along their borders than by the road commission’s worn paint marks.

Rhythmic eyes bouncing back and forth across the windshield, Mel took note of the cold-looking clouds up above. They were bright, but in a gray kind of way, as if they could burst into sunshine or downpour in the same instant.

A soft movement caught Mel’s eye on the right shoulder up ahead. Snapping to it, Mel could see an older man with a snug hat and huge jacket tugging at his mailbox. Mel edged the car toward the center of the road, raising his head to determine if any oncoming traffic was going to come up over that hill.

Headlights.

Can’t give you much space. Sorry, sir, Mel thought to himself, projecting the thought toward the old man as if he could hear it.

Still, Mel kept as close to the center of the road as he could, and passed the man—and the other car—without incident as kept struggling to get the mailbox open.

Considering how close his huge piece of machinery had been to that vulnerable man, and how short the shoulder of the road was, and how slippery it was as well, Mel thought aloud: “I had that man’s fate in my hands!”

But isn’t it true that he could’ve jumped in front of you?

“Or slipped… or just backed up too far.”

If that’d happened, what fate would you have been responsible for?

“None, I guess.”

The leaves, Mel noticed, were all but gone from the passing trees.

We both had to play our role to perfection to prevent a deadly collision. I just had to stay in my lane and make sure I kept my car in control. He just had to…not get in my way, I guess. We danced a dangerous dance, then, he and I. To an extent, I had to trust him. And he really had to trust me. But his trust was without a second thought. Do you think he even heard me? He had a generalized trust for anyone who might’ve been driving by as he was getting his mail. And yet, we both played our part perfectly well….

An acorn fell onto Mel’s windshield, but he hardly noticed. His arms rotated the wheel with fluid, mindless ease, guiding the car around the tight, wood-walled curves.

That’s the same way stop lights work. Everyone is supposed to look around, though, too, and not just follow the light blindly. Even though I was expecting him to uphold his end of our deal, I still needed to be wary in case he didn’t. That way, I could still take action to avoid an accident that would’ve occurred if I hadn’t been expecting it and therefore didn’t act on it!

If he fell, for example, I should’ve been going slow enough to be able to stop, and hopefully glide out of the lane and borrow some of the oncoming lane. That’d’ve been better than running him over. And, much the same, that oncoming driver, I hope, would’ve seen his mistake, noticed my compensatory action, and himself made room for me to make room for him so we could all escape without incident despite there having been a hiccup in our little, dangerous dance!

So not only do we have to be able to play our role well, but we have to be able to adapt to potential mistakes made by the other in a way that will prevent an accident that might’ve been if not…

He uttered a sort of growl at himself, “Now I’m just repeating myself.” Switching to a smile, he concluded: “Suffice it to say, accident prevention is a cooperative effort!”

A thud and a lurch, and then Mel’s foot clamped down on the brake pedal. He glided onto the shoulder, heart clenched, sweat already beading on his forehead and cheeks.

“Uhh,” his voice quivered as he looked over his shoulder, then ahead, then repeating, before opening the door. He swung his leg over to stand, but the muscles didn’t thrust him out of the seat. He choked, felt a pressure on his throat. He cursed, then fumbled with the seatbelt and finally released himself from the car.

Whipping his head to the left, he swallowed hard, fearing what he might see. Nothing. Jogging to the back of the car, he scanned the ditch next to the road. A bundle in the road two dozen yards back caught his eye. He hurried over to it, sweat falling over his face. It was hard, in that gray-dark-bright light, to see what it was until he was quite close.

He saw a yellow-scale claw. He imparted a sigh. The sweat turned to ice on his face and neck. The bundle was a mess of feathers which hid a body that was oblong, pushed out of shape by the weight of something large and fast. Hmm.

Walking around the bundle, Mel confirmed his suspicion that this was a turkey when he saw its bald head and big wattle, which hung over the neck of the thing like a fleshy petrified waterfall.

Mel verbalized disgust, then felt pretty bad, so he said, to the dead bird,

“Sorry, little dude. Tough luck I guess. Um… here.”

He bent toward the creature and grabbed the back of its neck with his fingertips, but it was too heavy to lift like that. Sighing, he wrapped his fingers all the way around it and, carrying the body far away from his own, laid the bird a little way into the ditch, feet first.

Shaken by cold and wiping his hand on his pants, Mel hopped back toward the car. About to set himself in the driver’s seat, he hesitated, then curved around to the front to check the damage.

Come on, dude. Seriously?
Forest 3-A Revisited

February 1st, 2021

Tertius Gradus

The time had come for the evening stroll. Spring walks through his private wood were the most heavenly experience he believed could occur while on the broken world. The soothing smell of blossoming flowers, of lush new leaves, clean air being ushered in by the joyous season always enveloped him on morning and evening trips. The evening, he was sure, elevated the experience; something about a day’s worth of sunshine brushing down on the forest gave it an extra liveliness; instead of the rigid and dewy hours after the night, the evening hour offered a clean, relaxing satisfaction after a long day’s work. The animals seemed to enjoy the later day as well. Birds chip cheerily all around him, squirrels chase each other with incredible speed, leaping from branch to branch with supernatural precision. Turkeys would cross the trails, eyeing him, gurgling at him, and fluttering their feathers at him. Now and again, he would encounter a small mammal, like a skunk or a porcupine, who always left him alone after a few moments of fraternal stares. More often, a rabbit would come across his path; the excitable little rodents always leapt away and disappeared into the brush immediately.

This day, he set out nearer to the close of his dinner than usual, giving himself extra time to enjoy the sights and sounds of his woods. He had worked hard to purchase his forest, labored and finessed his way through multiple corporate ladders for many long years to assure his ideal retirement. Secluded, calm, and natural. He knew as he aged, some of the natural aspects of his early retirement would need to be phased out. Wood cannot be cut by an eighty-year old, hunts cannot be dragged by an eighty-year old, his own body, eventually, would need help cleaning itself. The second retirement, a return to infantile dependency, may yet be enjoyable. He had a plan for it. But it would not begin to compare to the idyllic position in which he currently finds himself. On the trail, alone, free, and with a full belly.

Curiously, being about a quarter of the way down his typical route, he has not heard any songs from the finches or buntings that typically fill the air with their lovely little tunes. No matter, the gentle rustling of young leaves in the breeze is a sound that offers his mind ease. The vibrant forest, the soft breeze, and the whispering leaves are hypnotic enough on their own. He smiles, closes his eyes for a moment, and carries on, taking a deep breath of the evening air which he loves so much.

His nose is filled with a pungent odor. Recoiling and instinctively grasping at his throat as if he’d been choked, his eyes snap open and he looks around. Collecting himself, he examines a few bushes more closely. Stepping off the trail towards one, he notices a furry little body laying there, not reacting to his approach. The stench is present. Changing his angle, he finally determines that this little skunk is dead. The old man sets a glove over his hand. The body looks intact enough to be moved without falling to pieces. It certainly smells fresh, too. He picks it up, respectfully, and carries it some way into the woods, gently laying it to rest away from his walking trail, hoping that the stench will be diminished by morning.

Returning to the trail, removing his glove, and happy to be back on his way, he waits a while before taking another sniff of his surroundings. The sweet spring air should set his mind at—no! He gags, frustrated at the odor that clings to the woods. He looks around again, not finding any carcasses to blame. Pondering for a moment, his concentration is broken when he glances up at the sky. The vibrant blue of early-evening has evaporated, giving way to an orange, now yellowing, now graying late-evening, now dusking color. This should not be the case. He decides to turn around and head home. He must’ve travelled further than he thought after he disposed of the skunk. But, then, why the stench?

Suddenly the air around him seizes him in its grasp, binding him in biting cold wind, like a snowless winter gale. He shivers, then stumbles forward. The forest is no longer vibrant; the color is being drained out of the saplings, the tree trunks, the mosses, the flowers. The color, as the sun flees into the night, is soaked into the object to which it belongs and replaced with shades of gray. He looks into the sky. Black clouds with gray streaks swirl above him. These are the most charismatic storm clouds he has ever encountered, and they are brewing like a sinister stew in a witch’s pot. He picks up his pace and runs headlong into the stench. It sets upon him, stubborn before the chilling breeze that wraps itself over him. Instead of being reduced by the wind, it stuffs itself into his nose and mouth like acrid, fat fingers groping into his skull. Even his ears and eyes protest before the invasive odor. The putrid stench is worse than before, worse than a rank carcass, worse than burning flesh, worse than the decay of a battlefield, worse than any scent the natural world, worse than any scent man, can dream of rendering.

He begins to jog as the scent burns into his eyes, as the blackness of night mocks his vision. He flicks on his flashlight, catching glimpses of his trail in the pale light, creating skeletons of the trees shrouded in coal blackness.

Then the world goes dark again.

Stumbling forward, he mashes at the flashlight, desperate to set the battery straight. But he realizes he is not blinking.

His eyes have been forced shut.

He can’t breath.

He must reach his home.

He produces a pocket knife.

He sets the blade upon his eyelid.

He screams as blood rushes down his cheek, offering a warmth with a twisted welcome that fights against the blistering cold air.

Then the other.

He wipes the blood away,

and is yet blind.

Concerned no longer with the insurmountable pain in his eyes, he gasps and breathes heavy, fast breaths, pulling the stench in and forcing it out as if he’d just run a marathon. Within his chest, the foul air rips at his organs and thrashes like an alligator with its prey. The sensation alone nauseates the man. Forcing the stench out is no relief; the stench burns his throat on the way up, eating at his esophagus like acid, dragging behind it bile, which he ejects with every breath. It joins the blood from his severed eyelids that cascades over his chin.

He stumbles to his feet, clinging desperately to the flashlight, tumbling himself forward. His head begins to imagine that he must be nearing the cabin, he must be nearing the cabin. At any moment, he’ll bump into it.

His arms reject the prospect. They touch nothing but the ground as he collapses, unable to trick his lungs into accepting the unnatural air any longer. The ground is cold and clammy, like a cement basement floor. The flashlight falls out of his hand.

He begins to crawl forward, then allows his body to drop to the ground entirely. He retreats within himself, offering his body as a sacrifice if only his mind be spared.

But the odor is not contented with his body. It begins to pester at his consciousness. It consumes him, dominates his thoughts. He falls back so far that he is no longer uncomfortable—he no longer knows what the word means. He no longer feels the pain of the eyelids that once were. His organs no longer burn. He is not concerned with his breath, he has forgotten the place in which he lives. He withdraws further, forgetting everything. Unlearning everything. Now he does not think. There are no thoughts, but there is not nothing.

For there is something.

An emotion, a single emotion which has devoured his body, has seized his mind, and which is now penetrating his soul itself, inducting his soul into its own essence.

And the emotion is

Tag: rural

A Day on the Farm

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

Avian Procession

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

Accident Prevention

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Forest 3-A Revisited

Tertius Gradus