Going to start posting again. Starting this blog all over. mainly going to use it as an outlet for all the ideas I get stuck in my head when it comes to writing. First story up. I have a loose idea to turn this first one into a series of super short vignettes. We'll see.
Summer Air.
The gravel spit up from the tires as she sped away, pelting him with rocks, and leaving a cloud of dirt to turn his tears to tiny splotches of mud on his face. She was gone for good this time. She wanted a life more exciting than what he could give her. More than what he wanted. He turned back to the old farmhouse, and walked up the hill.
Four hours later, all of her remaining things lay in the 55 gallon drum behind the barn, ready to be burned. But he couldn’t bring himself to start the fire. The quilt she had been given by his grandmother, the framed pictures of the two of them at the Corn Palace and Wall Drug, the jacket he had bought her in Thunder Bay. Clothing, photos, her box of trinkets acquired from auctions, and trips they had taken together. A billion memories and smells and feelings all now resided in a rusted out burn barrel, which he now stood next to holding a jerry can of gasoline, and the Zippo his grandfather left him. He faltered as he went to pour the gas into the barrel.
All was quiet except the sound of the warm breeze pushing it’s way through the prairie grass, a cicada buzzing somewhere in the distance, the hens gently clucking around back. He stood there; eyes closed standing in the summer sun, taking in the quiet sounds of his life. He breathed a sigh of warm, thick summer air, poured the gas in, and lit the contents of the barrel. There were chores to do.
All stories posted here are property of Zachary Falb. Any attempt to steal, copy, etc etc without my permission will result in my being extremely angry, and sending a lawyer after you.
I likeit Zach. I have been trying to write some short ones. they don't work for me
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