This short story was published in a collection called Timber, in 2018. Some of you might have read it, but for those who haven’t, I’ve decided to post it here in serial form over the next two weeks.
There are no pictures. I hope my words paint the scene and the actions for you.
As a writer, I sit alone at my computer, imaging people in situations and creating lives and stories around those imaginings. Most of my characters remain stuck, unloved and unknown, inside this laptop. I think they all belong on pages in books, so on the rare occasions when others judge my stories as worthy of publishing, I get madly excited and want to broadcast my words to the world immediately.
However, that wouldn’t be fair to the publishers who hope you and many other readers, would pay for the joy of reading all the stories in the collections like Timber. Stringybark Publishing does a great job, encouraging writers like me.
I’d really love to know what you think of the story so far and please come back next Saturday, the 19th September, for more.
Here is part one of:
One Week To Harvest
Grey clouds tumbled overhead, like waves in a stormy sea. Ripened wheat danced in the paddock.
From the doorway of his shed Gus watched the motor bike – a Harley Davidson, its shiny black metal splattered with mud. His ears throbbed at each rev of the throttle; the pain was nothing compared with the agony gripping his heart like the thrust of a sword, forge fired, cutting deep and searing flesh.
Amy didn’t wave, didn’t even look back, just wrapped her arms around the object of her passion and buried her face in his leather jacket.
Drops of rain mingled with his tears as Gus turned away. Inside the shed that was meant to be their temporary home, Amy’s bras and panties, normally scattered on chairs, the floor, their bed, were glaringly absent. In the corner where she sat to write her stories, the desk he’d made from a she-oak felled on their land, looked pristine. Devoid of laptop, printer, books and paper, the photo of him and her, taken on their honeymoon, stood out as a solitary reminder.
Harry, his black coat dripping, wandered into the shed. Doggy eyes sought answers from his master. He had followed the bike, bearing Amy, as far as the gate. His tail normally wagged so fast it knocked cups off the coffee table. Now it drooped, leaving a wet trail on the floor.
“Come here, fella.” Gus sat on the couch and patted his knee. “It’s just you and me, mate. You don’t know what she sees in that fucking mongrel either, do you?”
Man and dog ate alone that night—two tins taken from the unpacked box of groceries. Gus warmed his Irish stew in the frying pan that he and Amy bought when they moved in together. Harry sniffed at the contents of his metal bowl. Outside, rain continued pounding on the tin roof and gurgling down the pipes that fed into a tank, several metres away.
The bed was cold; empty and cold. White sheets were unforgiving as Gus lay down, his right arm automatically reaching for the warmth of Amy’s body. Gentle tears turned to wracking sobs, their sound blocking out the rustle on the other side of the bed. Never permitted, Harry crept in beside his master. Together they survived that first night.
At sunrise Gus crawled out from a tangle of sheets, pillows and doona. Harry was waiting by the door, tail wagging intermittently, as if he wasn’t sure such behaviour was appropriate, but a new day awaited and he was eager to be outside, exploring its possibilities.
“Okay, fella. You can go for a run. I’m having breakfast first.” Gus opened the door and let his dog out before stumbling back to the clothes rack where, until yesterday, three floral dresses and a rainbow rack of t-shirts were jammed in alongside his collection of shirts and jeans. Black, grey and navy appeared more depressing than convenient without the contrast of Amy’s wardrobe. He pushed coat hangers along the bar in an effort to close the gap.
Harry was back, snuffling at the door, when Gus walked out to fill the water bottle from the tank.
“Shit.”
In every direction, as far as he could see, ripened wheat lay prostrate in the paddocks.
“Just one bloody week to harvest.”