Post by Steve on Jan 25, 2008 0:15:34 GMT -5
This farm, everything that he ever knew would be lost. There were no little farmers that he and his wife conceived. In fact, there was never a wife for him. He lived alone his entire life, presumably after a few small ventures dabbling with youthful ruckus and females. But now, his health was failing him. Everyday he felt less and less like waking up. More and more like pulling the shutters, loosening the drapes, and watching and waiting for his eyes to see a blackness that was darker than this room of his during the middle of the night. He thought quickly about giving the farm to Tweak, and making it a shared contract so that there was somebody to deal with the Quarterly men because out of the years Tweak had helped him harvest, the old man couldn’t be certain if the boy had ever seen them. He wouldn’t know what to do and the men would take advantage of this and perhaps cut the price they were paying to a ridiculous amount.
As it was at the time he was receiving a $300 check along with fresh drinking water and crop seed for his winter food. It had been a long time, since he was a small child, that the rivers were polluted with microscopic worms, much like tape-worms, that prevented anyone from ingesting the water. The fish were fine, after cooking thoroughly, and the water was fine to irrigate with, and if you boiled the water it became drinkable but it was a luxury to have fresh jug water and not have to cook a glass of water. The money he received allowed for the house and farm to remain a step above being a shack and a few new shirts or slacks for himself and Tweak. There was the worry that if Tweak ran the farm the Quarterly men would reduce the amount, and since Tweak wouldn’t be able to perform maintenance on the farm or the house he would have to hire some one to do it for him and run out of money. It was a hard time for the old man and either way he looked at it there was only the dismal fact that his farm wouldn’t survive for much longer.
While the old farmer was thinking this Tweak sat there politely with his hands folded, not a thought in his eyes. His tongue would pop out of the side of his mouth and run across his lips like a nude man, pink from the sun, running the dash. He would tap his fingers, which were as large as logs, and since he didn’t know any songs, he just randomly thudded them as he pleased. His eyes were fixed on the wall beside the table, and they would follow the cracks down to the floor, then back up to where they vanished right before the ceiling. He began thinking about the tiny skulls and how their scalps felt as he tore them from their stems. How they were peaceful, emotionless. To him they seemed almost dead, like they had nothing in them yet; just ornaments. Dreamless dolls hanging from the trees in the farmer’s backyard.
He remembered the time, one of the many times that the farmer left during the day and didn’t come back till nearly the day’s end. He sat in one of the trees holding one of the quiet babes loosely in his hands. His monstrous hands enveloping the entire body of the child, he carefully moved the arm at its elbow. He had nearly moved every part of its body, seeing if it bent at the same parts as he did. In the middle of this he suddenly grew angry. Complex. He wasn’t sure what exactly was happening, only that he felt his blood running through portions of his face that he had never felt them pass through. He was warm in places that he had always felt to be regular. His tongue wet his lips and then his jaw clenched. He gripped the babe tighter, raised it above his head, and swung it against the tree trunk before him.
It pleased him. The sound of the tiny head splitting through the small scab in the middle of its head made his heart light. It made his eyes clearer. Tweak sat there staring at the dark spot on the tree. Watching it slide down the trunk and trickle onto a few leaves just below him. Instead of taking another and doing this he simply swung the doll twice more, leaving fragments of skin and organs sewn into the bark. By now the face was fully sheared clear off, and he beat only a small section just above the waist with his final blow. He held the tiny pair of legs in his palms. Their feet were crossed and Ohio cloud white without the blood in them. Tweak cried. He didn’t know for what. It hadn’t seemed alive. The doll made no noise while he was thrashing it about the bough of the tree. But now, with the wood louse sized toes curled against the calluses on his hands, he bawled. He wept. And he thought about the last time that he cried, and he couldn’t remember.
He remained at the table after the farmer yelled to him he was headed upstairs. The old man stood behind him, and tapped his shoulder: “Tweak, I’m going up about now. You can eat some more or do what you like, but I’m headed up and catching eye rest.” and he gently but ever so quickly massaged the boy’s shoulders.
He waited until he heard the door close then got up and opened the screen door. He paused for a minute, uncertain, and then walked onto, then off of, the back porch. His body was lost in the darkness seconds after he left, but the crunching of twigs and leaves beneath his feet were heard until he stopped.
Tonight, tonight Tweak would sleep among the trees.
The months of the harvest departed as the days chilled with winds from the north. The old farmer had made it through the season, one more notch in his belt, riding on Tweak’s back; but the consequence left him nearly bed ridden for the past two weeks. The month had closed and Quarterly men arrived to collect their investment, give the check and the supplies, and this was the final mark of the end of harvest season. It had been a fine one, the trees were in great health and the insects weren’t a tremendous issue, and it was ending none too soon for the old man; who was graciously accepting the general feeling of conclusion that was evident around him. Autumn had burnt the leaves and the trees were dropping their ember-bodies every time the old farmer looked outside. Soon it would all turn grey and malnourished.
The old farmer lied in his bed, the comforter twisted about his neck showing his thin face—longer now since he became too lazy to exercise his jaw muscles except when eating or speaking—and exposing his socked feet. The fireplace crackled and through the soot flew burning confetti popping into the air with the sound of kernels bursting through their shells, and one solitary ember blew passed the metal grate-hovered and spiraled then fell to the wood floor. The old man watched it, following with his eyes until it became cold ash to be blown away whenever a breeze appeared. He began thinking about the week prior, how time slows, nearly stopping when all there is are walls and poor views from a window; about thoughts he had pondered and rolled around in his skull during that period and felt infinitesimal, microscopic at the base of the mountain of time that, though was shortened by a decreasing health, was still an immense amount of minutes; hours; days to be lived through before his fight was complete.
He had dismissed Tweak in a rather sharp manner at the first signs of his increasing decrepit ness, too proud to have some one witness his body failing; his legs folding like a collapsible chair and the struggle to finish the route to the bathroom; his hands fumbling with cook-ware and the burns rendered. He was a private man, and nothing had changed this about him; in fact if there was any alteration in his personality it would have been the amplification of his solitary life. There were times when the fan-handed boy was gravely missed, though they never coincided with the moments when the old man felt crippled, instead, it was during his prophetic visions into the fireplace or when he was spectator of a dust race taking place on the floor that the old farmer pined for another pair of eyes; if not to look into while speaking, then only for the fire to gaze upon and give his own pupils rest.
The old man went through this day after day until the new year. The snow had fallen, the trees washed grey; his orchard barren. He repeated through his mind the sentence that had taken everything from him: We have no longer the need to conduct business with you. In return for the service your family rendered this last payment will be doubled. The quandary he faced last year had come to a solution, though somehow the old man still felt resentful for being discharged in such shortness; of both advance notice and tonality of the Quarterly man that had spoken. This wasn’t his employment that ended by another’s hand, but his heritage. It is one thing for a man to neglect or refuse his own legacy, for then he is certain that that is what he desires, but for it to be done so by an outsider; a person who assumes they hold a form of superiority over another man, is a fatal strike against every thing that makes one a man.
He had heard Tweak downstairs at the first snow and took comfort that he was not utterly isolated, only distantly removed from the world, and slowly the torture of what concluded his family’s existence on earth let off and he was able to sleep once again.
It wasn’t long into the first month that he became bed-bound; his ventures to relieve his bladder became less frequent, less graceful compared to when he first began life in his bed. He rarely ate and when he did the only thing he was able to eat was water-logged bread. His mouth lost its strength and he swallowed his food with his teeth wide apart, head bent backwards with the mush sliding into his throat. On the small wooden table to the left of the bed was a brass bell that he would ring when he needed Tweak to bring him more bread and water. He used the chime less, resolving to sleep until the hunger was unbearable, though there had been times when he rang simply for the sight of Tweak.
Now, after the years of knowing and caring for the young boy, the old farmer enjoyed pretending Tweak was his finest crop, harvested from his own loin and obviously managing well without the farmer’s guidance. The boy would sit at the foot of the mattress, smiling into the folds of the elder’s face, desperately attempting infiltrate the walls of flesh that had begun to block the farmer’s eyes. The old man rationalized that the boy didn’t comprehend that he was dying and wondered if he would be remembered by him. It was a dismal thought but one that couldn’t have been avoided. The old man would fall asleep and dream of horizons at dawn, knowing they were only the smiles of Tweak watching as he slept.
The farmer had relinquished eating, and for a few days the boy still came with bread and water, but had stopped not long after. The old man felt his time was closer than far off, he felt the heaviness of his chest and the reduced amount of air he was able to inhale. He hadn’t been out from under the sheets since the last time Tweak had entered with sustenance and the bolts, joints of his body ached every time he drew a breath. The old man knew it was today that he was to vacate his body and earth and rung the bell to see the boy for the last time. His hand reached for the bell but fell as soon as the support from his thigh was gone. He was extraordinarily drowsy, his eyelids weighed a ton each and he let them close. He dreamt a night horizon and felt it deepen; missing the beautiful blue-yellow dawns that Tweak injected his dreams with.
Cob-webs formed in the corners of the house, thickened to resemble spun sugar; the shed fell beneath the last blizzard; the shutters of the old man’s windows blew and beat against the house in winds and the fireplace grew cold, forgot the orange glow of burning wood. Silver in the house tarnished, walls yellowed; pipes below the floors froze and cracked, the building began to fall away shingle by shingle as the sun set and rose without hesitation. The orchard was tacit, leaves occasionally rustled and broke the sterile quietness, but Sunset Orchard was silent and neglected. The echo of life became less distinguishable from the muffled howls of wind; apologies from the old man receded into the trees that marked all that was left of his heritage.
As it was at the time he was receiving a $300 check along with fresh drinking water and crop seed for his winter food. It had been a long time, since he was a small child, that the rivers were polluted with microscopic worms, much like tape-worms, that prevented anyone from ingesting the water. The fish were fine, after cooking thoroughly, and the water was fine to irrigate with, and if you boiled the water it became drinkable but it was a luxury to have fresh jug water and not have to cook a glass of water. The money he received allowed for the house and farm to remain a step above being a shack and a few new shirts or slacks for himself and Tweak. There was the worry that if Tweak ran the farm the Quarterly men would reduce the amount, and since Tweak wouldn’t be able to perform maintenance on the farm or the house he would have to hire some one to do it for him and run out of money. It was a hard time for the old man and either way he looked at it there was only the dismal fact that his farm wouldn’t survive for much longer.
While the old farmer was thinking this Tweak sat there politely with his hands folded, not a thought in his eyes. His tongue would pop out of the side of his mouth and run across his lips like a nude man, pink from the sun, running the dash. He would tap his fingers, which were as large as logs, and since he didn’t know any songs, he just randomly thudded them as he pleased. His eyes were fixed on the wall beside the table, and they would follow the cracks down to the floor, then back up to where they vanished right before the ceiling. He began thinking about the tiny skulls and how their scalps felt as he tore them from their stems. How they were peaceful, emotionless. To him they seemed almost dead, like they had nothing in them yet; just ornaments. Dreamless dolls hanging from the trees in the farmer’s backyard.
He remembered the time, one of the many times that the farmer left during the day and didn’t come back till nearly the day’s end. He sat in one of the trees holding one of the quiet babes loosely in his hands. His monstrous hands enveloping the entire body of the child, he carefully moved the arm at its elbow. He had nearly moved every part of its body, seeing if it bent at the same parts as he did. In the middle of this he suddenly grew angry. Complex. He wasn’t sure what exactly was happening, only that he felt his blood running through portions of his face that he had never felt them pass through. He was warm in places that he had always felt to be regular. His tongue wet his lips and then his jaw clenched. He gripped the babe tighter, raised it above his head, and swung it against the tree trunk before him.
It pleased him. The sound of the tiny head splitting through the small scab in the middle of its head made his heart light. It made his eyes clearer. Tweak sat there staring at the dark spot on the tree. Watching it slide down the trunk and trickle onto a few leaves just below him. Instead of taking another and doing this he simply swung the doll twice more, leaving fragments of skin and organs sewn into the bark. By now the face was fully sheared clear off, and he beat only a small section just above the waist with his final blow. He held the tiny pair of legs in his palms. Their feet were crossed and Ohio cloud white without the blood in them. Tweak cried. He didn’t know for what. It hadn’t seemed alive. The doll made no noise while he was thrashing it about the bough of the tree. But now, with the wood louse sized toes curled against the calluses on his hands, he bawled. He wept. And he thought about the last time that he cried, and he couldn’t remember.
He remained at the table after the farmer yelled to him he was headed upstairs. The old man stood behind him, and tapped his shoulder: “Tweak, I’m going up about now. You can eat some more or do what you like, but I’m headed up and catching eye rest.” and he gently but ever so quickly massaged the boy’s shoulders.
He waited until he heard the door close then got up and opened the screen door. He paused for a minute, uncertain, and then walked onto, then off of, the back porch. His body was lost in the darkness seconds after he left, but the crunching of twigs and leaves beneath his feet were heard until he stopped.
Tonight, tonight Tweak would sleep among the trees.
The months of the harvest departed as the days chilled with winds from the north. The old farmer had made it through the season, one more notch in his belt, riding on Tweak’s back; but the consequence left him nearly bed ridden for the past two weeks. The month had closed and Quarterly men arrived to collect their investment, give the check and the supplies, and this was the final mark of the end of harvest season. It had been a fine one, the trees were in great health and the insects weren’t a tremendous issue, and it was ending none too soon for the old man; who was graciously accepting the general feeling of conclusion that was evident around him. Autumn had burnt the leaves and the trees were dropping their ember-bodies every time the old farmer looked outside. Soon it would all turn grey and malnourished.
The old farmer lied in his bed, the comforter twisted about his neck showing his thin face—longer now since he became too lazy to exercise his jaw muscles except when eating or speaking—and exposing his socked feet. The fireplace crackled and through the soot flew burning confetti popping into the air with the sound of kernels bursting through their shells, and one solitary ember blew passed the metal grate-hovered and spiraled then fell to the wood floor. The old man watched it, following with his eyes until it became cold ash to be blown away whenever a breeze appeared. He began thinking about the week prior, how time slows, nearly stopping when all there is are walls and poor views from a window; about thoughts he had pondered and rolled around in his skull during that period and felt infinitesimal, microscopic at the base of the mountain of time that, though was shortened by a decreasing health, was still an immense amount of minutes; hours; days to be lived through before his fight was complete.
He had dismissed Tweak in a rather sharp manner at the first signs of his increasing decrepit ness, too proud to have some one witness his body failing; his legs folding like a collapsible chair and the struggle to finish the route to the bathroom; his hands fumbling with cook-ware and the burns rendered. He was a private man, and nothing had changed this about him; in fact if there was any alteration in his personality it would have been the amplification of his solitary life. There were times when the fan-handed boy was gravely missed, though they never coincided with the moments when the old man felt crippled, instead, it was during his prophetic visions into the fireplace or when he was spectator of a dust race taking place on the floor that the old farmer pined for another pair of eyes; if not to look into while speaking, then only for the fire to gaze upon and give his own pupils rest.
The old man went through this day after day until the new year. The snow had fallen, the trees washed grey; his orchard barren. He repeated through his mind the sentence that had taken everything from him: We have no longer the need to conduct business with you. In return for the service your family rendered this last payment will be doubled. The quandary he faced last year had come to a solution, though somehow the old man still felt resentful for being discharged in such shortness; of both advance notice and tonality of the Quarterly man that had spoken. This wasn’t his employment that ended by another’s hand, but his heritage. It is one thing for a man to neglect or refuse his own legacy, for then he is certain that that is what he desires, but for it to be done so by an outsider; a person who assumes they hold a form of superiority over another man, is a fatal strike against every thing that makes one a man.
He had heard Tweak downstairs at the first snow and took comfort that he was not utterly isolated, only distantly removed from the world, and slowly the torture of what concluded his family’s existence on earth let off and he was able to sleep once again.
It wasn’t long into the first month that he became bed-bound; his ventures to relieve his bladder became less frequent, less graceful compared to when he first began life in his bed. He rarely ate and when he did the only thing he was able to eat was water-logged bread. His mouth lost its strength and he swallowed his food with his teeth wide apart, head bent backwards with the mush sliding into his throat. On the small wooden table to the left of the bed was a brass bell that he would ring when he needed Tweak to bring him more bread and water. He used the chime less, resolving to sleep until the hunger was unbearable, though there had been times when he rang simply for the sight of Tweak.
Now, after the years of knowing and caring for the young boy, the old farmer enjoyed pretending Tweak was his finest crop, harvested from his own loin and obviously managing well without the farmer’s guidance. The boy would sit at the foot of the mattress, smiling into the folds of the elder’s face, desperately attempting infiltrate the walls of flesh that had begun to block the farmer’s eyes. The old man rationalized that the boy didn’t comprehend that he was dying and wondered if he would be remembered by him. It was a dismal thought but one that couldn’t have been avoided. The old man would fall asleep and dream of horizons at dawn, knowing they were only the smiles of Tweak watching as he slept.
The farmer had relinquished eating, and for a few days the boy still came with bread and water, but had stopped not long after. The old man felt his time was closer than far off, he felt the heaviness of his chest and the reduced amount of air he was able to inhale. He hadn’t been out from under the sheets since the last time Tweak had entered with sustenance and the bolts, joints of his body ached every time he drew a breath. The old man knew it was today that he was to vacate his body and earth and rung the bell to see the boy for the last time. His hand reached for the bell but fell as soon as the support from his thigh was gone. He was extraordinarily drowsy, his eyelids weighed a ton each and he let them close. He dreamt a night horizon and felt it deepen; missing the beautiful blue-yellow dawns that Tweak injected his dreams with.
Cob-webs formed in the corners of the house, thickened to resemble spun sugar; the shed fell beneath the last blizzard; the shutters of the old man’s windows blew and beat against the house in winds and the fireplace grew cold, forgot the orange glow of burning wood. Silver in the house tarnished, walls yellowed; pipes below the floors froze and cracked, the building began to fall away shingle by shingle as the sun set and rose without hesitation. The orchard was tacit, leaves occasionally rustled and broke the sterile quietness, but Sunset Orchard was silent and neglected. The echo of life became less distinguishable from the muffled howls of wind; apologies from the old man receded into the trees that marked all that was left of his heritage.