Apr 2008
Writer's Digest contest
Saturday, April05, 2008 In:Writing
As I was perusing through the latest edition of
Writer's Digest, I came across the monthly contest.
The directive was to write a short story and to use
the following as inspiration: A character walks into
a kitchen at the end of the day. He finds on the
kitchen table something that isn't supposed to be
there.
Here was my attempt:
As the late afternoon sun was setting, Lester sat atop his tractor, pulling the plow through one more row of field. He’d been working since daybreak, in preparation for the coming season. Stopping, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat from his brow. His stomach rumbled, indicating it was time to quit and head for home.
Just then, the bright red blur of a loud sports car sped past him on the small highway bordering the edge of his farm, thumping bass spilling from within.
Shaking his head, Lester eased the tractor onto the dirt path, raised the plow and slowly rode his tractor home. A simple man, he had no time for frivolities. He was a farmer, a vocation passed on for generations. Sometimes, he’d hire a body to help with the harvesting, but since his father was gone now and his mother was getting on in years, the work rested on his capable shoulders. He’d even opted not to marry, preferring the mistress that was his farm.
As Lester glanced back, a sense of satisfaction pervaded his senses. One of the last few farms around, he refused to sell his land to some fancy-pants investors. Not that they hadn’t tried. They were wily and seductive, but he just wouldn’t budge.
After securing the tractor inside the barn, Lester headed to the house a few yards away. The back door hung slightly ajar. Picking up pace, he rushed to the house.
“Ma?” He called out, stepping inside. Unsettled by the absolute silence within, he peered into the darkening living room. Nothing was out of place, momentarily subduing his growing unease.
Lester turned and strode to the kitchen, eager for dinner. He flipped on an overhead light and walked to the sink, pulling a glass from a nearby cupboard, filling it with cool tap water.
Turning, raising the glass for a drink, he gazed around the kitchen. The stovetop sat empty. The elements were dark in the oven, indicating that nothing baked within.
Puzzled, Lester realized the cleanliness of the countertops and sinks wasn’t uncommon. No, his mother was a fastidious housekeeper. But, considering the time, the kitchen was immaculate when pots should be on the stove bubbling with their contents, the scent of food wafting through the house.
“Ma?” He called out again. No response. He took a step back, his leg brushing the edge of a dining chair. Lester turned.
The table was simply set for the evening meal. On one plate standing perfectly on the handle’s end was a large knife, the blade covered in dark, congealing blood. A sense of doom pervaded his mind and he called out to his mother once more. “Ma!” Again, there was no response.
Looking at the knife, his head tilted sideways, attention fixed on a small, darkened mass at the tip. Bending at the waist, he peered more closely at the knife, identifying a clump of dark gray hair. Ma’s hair.
The water glass slipped from Lester’s fingers, the sound of splintering glass filling the room. His heart galloped. Grasping the edge of the table for support, he sucked in a breath, eyes widening. Straightening, legs wobbly, his mind reeled, still unable to fully comprehend the implications of the bloody knife before him. Who? What?
From somewhere within the house, a door creaked. A slow shuffling, out of place and certainly not his mother’s, crossed the floor at the end of the hall.
Step. Drag. Step. Drag.
What the…?
Hyperventilating, spots danced before his eyes. A fine sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
The television blared to life.
Lester cried out in surprise, jumping. Impossible! He was just in the living room. It had been decidedly empty.
Trying to shake off the foreboding thoughts and calm his racing heart, he reasoned that there must be a plausible explanation to the sounds and sight before him. Ready to go in search of his mother, he glanced down at the knife once again. Steeling himself, he took a small, shaky step.
The air left his lungs.
Blood drained from his face.
The lightest of breaths blew across his neck.
Lester slowly turned around. Utter terror gripped him. Ruby eyes, amidst the blackest of voids, stared into him. As darkness consumed him, his last panicked thoughts were of his mother’s life and anger that the satanic investors with the expensive suits would take his farm, after all.
Here was my attempt:
As the late afternoon sun was setting, Lester sat atop his tractor, pulling the plow through one more row of field. He’d been working since daybreak, in preparation for the coming season. Stopping, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat from his brow. His stomach rumbled, indicating it was time to quit and head for home.
Just then, the bright red blur of a loud sports car sped past him on the small highway bordering the edge of his farm, thumping bass spilling from within.
Shaking his head, Lester eased the tractor onto the dirt path, raised the plow and slowly rode his tractor home. A simple man, he had no time for frivolities. He was a farmer, a vocation passed on for generations. Sometimes, he’d hire a body to help with the harvesting, but since his father was gone now and his mother was getting on in years, the work rested on his capable shoulders. He’d even opted not to marry, preferring the mistress that was his farm.
As Lester glanced back, a sense of satisfaction pervaded his senses. One of the last few farms around, he refused to sell his land to some fancy-pants investors. Not that they hadn’t tried. They were wily and seductive, but he just wouldn’t budge.
After securing the tractor inside the barn, Lester headed to the house a few yards away. The back door hung slightly ajar. Picking up pace, he rushed to the house.
“Ma?” He called out, stepping inside. Unsettled by the absolute silence within, he peered into the darkening living room. Nothing was out of place, momentarily subduing his growing unease.
Lester turned and strode to the kitchen, eager for dinner. He flipped on an overhead light and walked to the sink, pulling a glass from a nearby cupboard, filling it with cool tap water.
Turning, raising the glass for a drink, he gazed around the kitchen. The stovetop sat empty. The elements were dark in the oven, indicating that nothing baked within.
Puzzled, Lester realized the cleanliness of the countertops and sinks wasn’t uncommon. No, his mother was a fastidious housekeeper. But, considering the time, the kitchen was immaculate when pots should be on the stove bubbling with their contents, the scent of food wafting through the house.
“Ma?” He called out again. No response. He took a step back, his leg brushing the edge of a dining chair. Lester turned.
The table was simply set for the evening meal. On one plate standing perfectly on the handle’s end was a large knife, the blade covered in dark, congealing blood. A sense of doom pervaded his mind and he called out to his mother once more. “Ma!” Again, there was no response.
Looking at the knife, his head tilted sideways, attention fixed on a small, darkened mass at the tip. Bending at the waist, he peered more closely at the knife, identifying a clump of dark gray hair. Ma’s hair.
The water glass slipped from Lester’s fingers, the sound of splintering glass filling the room. His heart galloped. Grasping the edge of the table for support, he sucked in a breath, eyes widening. Straightening, legs wobbly, his mind reeled, still unable to fully comprehend the implications of the bloody knife before him. Who? What?
From somewhere within the house, a door creaked. A slow shuffling, out of place and certainly not his mother’s, crossed the floor at the end of the hall.
Step. Drag. Step. Drag.
What the…?
Hyperventilating, spots danced before his eyes. A fine sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
The television blared to life.
Lester cried out in surprise, jumping. Impossible! He was just in the living room. It had been decidedly empty.
Trying to shake off the foreboding thoughts and calm his racing heart, he reasoned that there must be a plausible explanation to the sounds and sight before him. Ready to go in search of his mother, he glanced down at the knife once again. Steeling himself, he took a small, shaky step.
The air left his lungs.
Blood drained from his face.
The lightest of breaths blew across his neck.
Lester slowly turned around. Utter terror gripped him. Ruby eyes, amidst the blackest of voids, stared into him. As darkness consumed him, his last panicked thoughts were of his mother’s life and anger that the satanic investors with the expensive suits would take his farm, after all.
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