a folksy gothic story , a calm safe story, agrarians in america.
The house was wooden. The house was red. The house was a barn with porches tacked on to every side, to lend it some radial symmetry. The children were shoeless. The children were white. The children held rusty implements loosely in their callused hands.
The wind picked up and blew chaff into their eyes.
They went inside.
The sun bled over the field, and the bruise on the sky blackened into starless night.
The lamp was lit and the six implements set lightly on the table. Quietly, softly, carefully.
The places were set with bowls; mismatched, metal and stained wood and chipped porcelain found in the sludge of the floodplain.
that's it that's my whole story. It's too hard to write a story. FUCK
the two youngest children sat with their backs toward the wall. the eldest sat with his back toward the expanse of room behind him. the youngest kicked at the floor with her heels.
canned creamed corn with a spurt of tabasco, a cold soup for dinner.
they were happy. they laughed and sang as the light danced behind the glass, illuminated their tanned faces, their unruly hair.
the night was windless. the heavy clouds pregnant over the farm.
the porches were stuffed with clutter. anything. large clutter, small clutter, stacked clutter, rotting clutter. insulation, a moat, a bramble to barricade the barn.
the two youngest children scampered upstairs. the eldest rinsed the bowls in the kitchen trough, the dark water deepened by the light scattered on the surface. he thought he could see something in it. submerging the bowl, losing sight of his fingers as they held it, he thought he felt a pulse in them. just the water splashing, he thought. reverberating through itself like gelatin.
the girls he heard tittering from the loft.
The wind picked up and blew chaff into their eyes.
They went inside.
The sun bled over the field, and the bruise on the sky blackened into starless night.
The lamp was lit and the six implements set lightly on the table. Quietly, softly, carefully.
The places were set with bowls; mismatched, metal and stained wood and chipped porcelain found in the sludge of the floodplain.
that's it that's my whole story. It's too hard to write a story. FUCK
the two youngest children sat with their backs toward the wall. the eldest sat with his back toward the expanse of room behind him. the youngest kicked at the floor with her heels.
canned creamed corn with a spurt of tabasco, a cold soup for dinner.
they were happy. they laughed and sang as the light danced behind the glass, illuminated their tanned faces, their unruly hair.
the night was windless. the heavy clouds pregnant over the farm.
the porches were stuffed with clutter. anything. large clutter, small clutter, stacked clutter, rotting clutter. insulation, a moat, a bramble to barricade the barn.
the two youngest children scampered upstairs. the eldest rinsed the bowls in the kitchen trough, the dark water deepened by the light scattered on the surface. he thought he could see something in it. submerging the bowl, losing sight of his fingers as they held it, he thought he felt a pulse in them. just the water splashing, he thought. reverberating through itself like gelatin.
the girls he heard tittering from the loft.