A Rough Draft Very Short Story

The wind blew cold that year. The sagging front porch bore the weight of the leaves unswept and the sun barely knew us. We were growing older but I felt young and insignificant in the unwavering winter winds. Our cat had late kittens and they revived us till they grew and winter came hard and they slept warm, hiding under the porch. I asked John if he felt old and he laughted at me and blew smoke from his old cedar pipe--I hated him when he laughed because I knew it was because he felt old when he was with me.

I walked out to the porch and carefully stepped on the boards to not make them creak. He would not hear me and I hoped he would turn the television off. The sun shone low and the fields looked empty with the shadows of the fallen weeds and leftover wheat. I stepped quickly and walked down and felt the frozen ground break beneath my steps. The river looked cold across the grass and the trees insulated it from the tired, dry fields. I wished summer would not ever treat us so poorly again.

Walking towards the river I felt the wind brush my mousy hair across my red cold nose and I looked at the river, remembering the children's book about the houseboat spaceship (how absurd it seems to remember now, but how I would jump on sort of boat now!) As that thought entered my head a barge began to drift slowly into view-a tired giant-an antique, living, yet still slowly, in our ever increasing speed demon america. A man was walking up and down the barge; working, I supposed; living a free life, without the burden of family or expectations of the city, community--living, drifting slow--working simply.

"How happy he must be." I thought and believed it wholeheartedly. The man sat down at the very front of the boat and I envied him through all my neglected desires.

As I thought this standing near the corroded red riverbank, the man stood up and his shadow, long in the setting sun, touched me as he stepped off the edge into the water, the splash not making a sound, nor did the boat hitting his body as it went over him--the slow hum overwhelming it all.

All except the stinging gunshot that came from the farmhouse where John said goodbye to the T.V. once and for all.

the end. So I know this was kindof melodramatic but maybe thats ok. I wrote this out in the field (how depressed it makes me seem :) but I wanted to put it somewhere and see how it looked all typed up. I think its kinda slow.