the shed (part 1) Christa blokhuis
I (omniscient POV, no characters)
The corners of the shed’s roof were dotted with moulds. An old cloth hung on a spike that was drilled far into the brick wall. Inside it was silent, apart from soft ticking of raindrops on the only window. The window showed shades of green and purple, of the heather and shrubs that covered the stretches of field outside. All the metal items had turned a reddish-brown and the damp air was filled with the faint smell of iron. Dust had collected on the shelves full of pots, jars, and boxes, that had not been moved in over five years. There was one jar, however, containing a sheer collection of woollen pieces, knitting needles, and bits of knitted wear – not knitted far enough to be recognizable as either socks, gloves, or a shawl – that had a clear thumb print on it.
II (third person POV, shed owner)
His rain boots were sucked deep into the mud when Dickinson made his way up hill. For years the sheep had been gone. Nature had taken over. Heather and shrubs were competing for ground and smothering every other plant attempting to grow. At the point where the shed lingered from the side of the hill, Dickinson stopped. Raindrops hit his glasses and bald head and collected in streams that dripped onto his raincoat. A memory struck him. Her long, golden hair draped over her shoulders while she smiled at him, walking up hill to bring her bread and cheese and, on the better days, an apple. The sky darkened. Wind pulled his clothes. He stopped stopping. He had to go on.
A shrieking scream run goose bumps all over his body. It was the hinges. Dickinson tried closing the door, but after years of suffering from the cold and moist the metal simply cracked and let the door hang tilted, as an alternative gate, a way out of this world. He took a deep breath and collected himself, shaking off the urge to use a way out of this world. Cold from outside crept over the shed’s floor, touched the stillness of the walls full of rusted tools, and the shelves full of pots, jars, and boxes, and the cloth, still on its spike, that he had last held in his hands just before the girl from downtown had knocked on the shed door.
Christa Blokhuis
(TO BE CONTINUED, SEE PART 2)
The corners of the shed’s roof were dotted with moulds. An old cloth hung on a spike that was drilled far into the brick wall. Inside it was silent, apart from soft ticking of raindrops on the only window. The window showed shades of green and purple, of the heather and shrubs that covered the stretches of field outside. All the metal items had turned a reddish-brown and the damp air was filled with the faint smell of iron. Dust had collected on the shelves full of pots, jars, and boxes, that had not been moved in over five years. There was one jar, however, containing a sheer collection of woollen pieces, knitting needles, and bits of knitted wear – not knitted far enough to be recognizable as either socks, gloves, or a shawl – that had a clear thumb print on it.
II (third person POV, shed owner)
His rain boots were sucked deep into the mud when Dickinson made his way up hill. For years the sheep had been gone. Nature had taken over. Heather and shrubs were competing for ground and smothering every other plant attempting to grow. At the point where the shed lingered from the side of the hill, Dickinson stopped. Raindrops hit his glasses and bald head and collected in streams that dripped onto his raincoat. A memory struck him. Her long, golden hair draped over her shoulders while she smiled at him, walking up hill to bring her bread and cheese and, on the better days, an apple. The sky darkened. Wind pulled his clothes. He stopped stopping. He had to go on.
A shrieking scream run goose bumps all over his body. It was the hinges. Dickinson tried closing the door, but after years of suffering from the cold and moist the metal simply cracked and let the door hang tilted, as an alternative gate, a way out of this world. He took a deep breath and collected himself, shaking off the urge to use a way out of this world. Cold from outside crept over the shed’s floor, touched the stillness of the walls full of rusted tools, and the shelves full of pots, jars, and boxes, and the cloth, still on its spike, that he had last held in his hands just before the girl from downtown had knocked on the shed door.
Christa Blokhuis
(TO BE CONTINUED, SEE PART 2)