It’s a late afternoon in August and the shadows are growing deeper under the trees.
The Incident at Piscasaw Creek
My father tells this story every so often, and when my grandfather was alive, he told it too, wide eyed and with a bit of a quiver in his voice.
Old Bones
There some old bones out on my front lawn. They been there a while now. Don’t know whose they are–maybe somejerk dumped ’em there. The grass was sure tall before the rain stopped and it all dried up. There were them old bones just layin’ there then, all dry and white.
Maybe they Edwardo’s bones? He use to come by and cut the grass till he stopped comin’ by. Too old to cut the grass myself. I got old bones too.
I don’t worry ’bout them bones much. Plenty more in the streets and all them houses ‘round me now–all them old bones, saggin in them old clothes. Lucky I was in the cellar when the rain stopped.
The Valley – A Short Story
It was a dark November afternoon. Ice-cold rain fell in sheets. A stark wind whipped at the man’s coat. He stood on a dirt road overlooking a wooded valley, its canopy billowing like an ocean in the wind. Beyond the valley rose vast hills, glowing gold and amber through the gloom.