When you finish reading it will you be inspired to add some comments to posts on here? Or even provide us with some of your own writing? :) Given where the prompt has come from, and that if I use it for Lord Derby's tale you're probably going to get annoyed that I'll be setting up for a sequel with no guarantee of when it'll start, let's pick another character and use Connolly's theme....
A time of torment Two tractors, one red and one green, both mud-spattered, were parked side-by-side outside the barn on Methuselah's Ridge. The Ridge overlooked Opequon Creek on one side, and a tiny, eighteen house community on the other. The doors to the barn, taller than two men stood on one another's shoulders, were open despite the charcoal grey skies above promising rain. A thin wail wafted through the air, coming from somewhere inside the barn. The wind, steadily rising to storm levels, tore it apart and scattered it before anyone could hear it. A minute passed, and then two men and a woman came out of the barn. The men busied themselves with dragging the barn-doors closed and then setting a bar across them that was as long as they were tall. The woman, dressed in a long black skirt and tight-fitting, bodice-cut black jacket, watched them like a mourner at a funeral, her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer. When the barn was locked up the men went to the tractors while the woman set off down the Ridge on foot. She could take the direct route, which while steep was well walked and rocky; the tractors purred to life and drove off round the back of the barn to a long path with hairpin bends that was the only safe way for motor-transport. Atop the barn a weathervane swivelled, the rusted iron of the shaft squealing.
"Jean, you're back," said Martin as the woman in black walked into her kitchen. The back door, caught by the wind, slammed behind her as though pre-empting the oncoming thunder. "Of course I am," said Jean, not looking in Martin's direction. "Did you think I'd sit out in the storm?" She busied herself at the counter, turning the electric kettle on and getting cups from a cupboard. "I swear, you get dimmer by the day." "We've got company." Martin's voice was slow and dull, but there petulance there as well now.
Jean turned, closing the cupboard door and setting two china cups down. "And who are you then?" she said. Stood next to Martin, who was wearing a t-shirt that was spattered with the remnants of his breakfast, was a shabby man in a threadbare raincoat that might have been beige once but was now a washed-out near ivory colour. He had a torn fedora on his head that looked like it did nothing but hide his unwashed hair and shoes whose soles were clearly pulling away from the uppers. He looked like a hobo, possibly one suffering from a chronic spine condition. "MacArthur," said the hobo. "You can call me Mac." His voice sounded like he'd been punched in the throat a lot as a child: it grated and stuttered and struggled to get the syllables out. A bullfrog would have made a better effort at speech. "You can get out," said Jean. "Whatever you are I'm certain I don't want you in my house." "I was invited in," said Mac. "Martin has no authority to invite you in," said Jean. "And frankly, unless you're a vampire it doesn't matter anyway. I hold the deeds to this here property, and I say you're leaving." Thunder crashed outside the house, and there was muffled swearing. Then the back-door opened and the two men who had driven the tractors hurried in. Water droplets flew from them, and they left muddy footprints on the floor. Martin cringed. "Get out now," said Jean. Her face was stern. "Or I'll use you to mop up the mess these neanderthals have made." "It's tumultuous out there," said Mac, as the rain started in earnest. "Then it's time for torment for you," said Jean, and there was a mean-spirited note of enthusiasm creeping into her voice. "Fine, fine," said MacArthur. He sighed. "I'll go shelter in the barn up the hill then."
Greg - yes, that was certainly taking up quite a bit of my free time. But now I'm, what... just over a week behind on comments? There's hope yet!
Holy, I love your opening here. So good. And the follow up does not disappoint either. You have left me intrigued by the barn and what it contains, so I hope this gets a continuation sooner than later!
3 comments:
When you finish reading it will you be inspired to add some comments to posts on here? Or even provide us with some of your own writing? :)
Given where the prompt has come from, and that if I use it for Lord Derby's tale you're probably going to get annoyed that I'll be setting up for a sequel with no guarantee of when it'll start, let's pick another character and use Connolly's theme....
A time of torment
Two tractors, one red and one green, both mud-spattered, were parked side-by-side outside the barn on Methuselah's Ridge. The Ridge overlooked Opequon Creek on one side, and a tiny, eighteen house community on the other. The doors to the barn, taller than two men stood on one another's shoulders, were open despite the charcoal grey skies above promising rain.
A thin wail wafted through the air, coming from somewhere inside the barn. The wind, steadily rising to storm levels, tore it apart and scattered it before anyone could hear it. A minute passed, and then two men and a woman came out of the barn. The men busied themselves with dragging the barn-doors closed and then setting a bar across them that was as long as they were tall. The woman, dressed in a long black skirt and tight-fitting, bodice-cut black jacket, watched them like a mourner at a funeral, her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer. When the barn was locked up the men went to the tractors while the woman set off down the Ridge on foot. She could take the direct route, which while steep was well walked and rocky; the tractors purred to life and drove off round the back of the barn to a long path with hairpin bends that was the only safe way for motor-transport. Atop the barn a weathervane swivelled, the rusted iron of the shaft squealing.
"Jean, you're back," said Martin as the woman in black walked into her kitchen. The back door, caught by the wind, slammed behind her as though pre-empting the oncoming thunder.
"Of course I am," said Jean, not looking in Martin's direction. "Did you think I'd sit out in the storm?" She busied herself at the counter, turning the electric kettle on and getting cups from a cupboard. "I swear, you get dimmer by the day."
"We've got company." Martin's voice was slow and dull, but there petulance there as well now.
Jean turned, closing the cupboard door and setting two china cups down. "And who are you then?" she said.
Stood next to Martin, who was wearing a t-shirt that was spattered with the remnants of his breakfast, was a shabby man in a threadbare raincoat that might have been beige once but was now a washed-out near ivory colour. He had a torn fedora on his head that looked like it did nothing but hide his unwashed hair and shoes whose soles were clearly pulling away from the uppers. He looked like a hobo, possibly one suffering from a chronic spine condition.
"MacArthur," said the hobo. "You can call me Mac." His voice sounded like he'd been punched in the throat a lot as a child: it grated and stuttered and struggled to get the syllables out. A bullfrog would have made a better effort at speech.
"You can get out," said Jean. "Whatever you are I'm certain I don't want you in my house."
"I was invited in," said Mac.
"Martin has no authority to invite you in," said Jean. "And frankly, unless you're a vampire it doesn't matter anyway. I hold the deeds to this here property, and I say you're leaving."
Thunder crashed outside the house, and there was muffled swearing. Then the back-door opened and the two men who had driven the tractors hurried in. Water droplets flew from them, and they left muddy footprints on the floor. Martin cringed.
"Get out now," said Jean. Her face was stern. "Or I'll use you to mop up the mess these neanderthals have made."
"It's tumultuous out there," said Mac, as the rain started in earnest.
"Then it's time for torment for you," said Jean, and there was a mean-spirited note of enthusiasm creeping into her voice.
"Fine, fine," said MacArthur. He sighed. "I'll go shelter in the barn up the hill then."
Greg - yes, that was certainly taking up quite a bit of my free time. But now I'm, what... just over a week behind on comments? There's hope yet!
Holy, I love your opening here. So good. And the follow up does not disappoint either. You have left me intrigued by the barn and what it contains, so I hope this gets a continuation sooner than later!
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