road_less_trvled
The Descending Dark....the cold...Time is infinitely patient. The House holds it's breath, guarding the sacred barn.
It was late afternoon in October. A Friday, I believe. The air was thin; the light of the lowering sun fell heavy and bloated amid the shambling foliage drooping and dying its last gasps before onset of Winter’s cold chill blanketed the ridge and the long dark nights descended like a gallows guillotine, sharp and final.
I had come home from school that day to find the house strangely empty. Oh, for certain, there were times my mother would leave on some errand to the neighbors, or go off with some friend from the church for a doctor’s appointment, but she always left a note.
This time there was no note.
A vague uneasiness tried to assert itself then, but I quashed it. It was not that unusual. Nevertheless, I could not shake the sense of ominous foreboding. Something of import was creeping through the air that day, and I did not want to accept it. As I tossed my book bags in the corner and turned on the television, my mind began wandering over the events of the last few months. My mother’s unusual spells of vomiting and incoherence. The general malaise which, while always there, had begun to ripen into the rotting fruit of depression.
I sat unseeing, nibbling some snack crackers, shoving down thoughts of such like into the deep chasm-like hole where I wanted them to stay, but they clung tightly to the sides, incessantly slithering out from whatever lid I tried to cover that hole with.
I waited.
No one came home.
For several hours did I refuse to acknowledge something was even more wrong than it usually was. Never before had I had to wait this long for someone to come home, and the longer it took, the more I insisted to myself that nothing was amiss; nothing untoward had happened.
Suddenly unable to stand the not knowing for a single moment more, I quickly put on my coat and left the house as if it were any other normal day. Certainly this was preferable to jumping up at the sound of every approaching vehicle. Or pacing past the windows, circling the phone, and starting at every vague noise the house belched forth with wicked, sentient regularity.
It was my usual routine to play outside after diner, often exploring the dark hidden recesses around the farm.
excerpt from: "Darkly Springs the Soul" © road less trvled
The Descending Dark....the cold...Time is infinitely patient. The House holds it's breath, guarding the sacred barn.
It was late afternoon in October. A Friday, I believe. The air was thin; the light of the lowering sun fell heavy and bloated amid the shambling foliage drooping and dying its last gasps before onset of Winter’s cold chill blanketed the ridge and the long dark nights descended like a gallows guillotine, sharp and final.
I had come home from school that day to find the house strangely empty. Oh, for certain, there were times my mother would leave on some errand to the neighbors, or go off with some friend from the church for a doctor’s appointment, but she always left a note.
This time there was no note.
A vague uneasiness tried to assert itself then, but I quashed it. It was not that unusual. Nevertheless, I could not shake the sense of ominous foreboding. Something of import was creeping through the air that day, and I did not want to accept it. As I tossed my book bags in the corner and turned on the television, my mind began wandering over the events of the last few months. My mother’s unusual spells of vomiting and incoherence. The general malaise which, while always there, had begun to ripen into the rotting fruit of depression.
I sat unseeing, nibbling some snack crackers, shoving down thoughts of such like into the deep chasm-like hole where I wanted them to stay, but they clung tightly to the sides, incessantly slithering out from whatever lid I tried to cover that hole with.
I waited.
No one came home.
For several hours did I refuse to acknowledge something was even more wrong than it usually was. Never before had I had to wait this long for someone to come home, and the longer it took, the more I insisted to myself that nothing was amiss; nothing untoward had happened.
Suddenly unable to stand the not knowing for a single moment more, I quickly put on my coat and left the house as if it were any other normal day. Certainly this was preferable to jumping up at the sound of every approaching vehicle. Or pacing past the windows, circling the phone, and starting at every vague noise the house belched forth with wicked, sentient regularity.
It was my usual routine to play outside after diner, often exploring the dark hidden recesses around the farm.
excerpt from: "Darkly Springs the Soul" © road less trvled