Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are gamble, omitted and temporary.
And in honor of Six Sentences – what can you say in six? – here’s a six-sentence story.
Homestead
It could have started as an outhouse, for all he knew – or cared; the shed had that old-timey construction where temporary meant to last 100 years of punishment on the prairie.
He’d taken it apart, carefully numbered the planks, noted where the square-head nails went, omitted the rusted tin roof, loaded it onto a wagon and pulled it to his little half-acre in the hills.
And thus began the modification from shed to living space.
He dug down into the rich, dark soil until he hit clay; he dug rooms, a root cellar and lined the dirt walls with straw bales and tossed the floor with tiny river cobble that made a satisfying crunch wherever he walked.
He reconstructed the shed over the pit (complete with new, galvanized tin) as a way of egress/ingress and maybe for esthetics, for all he knew; but it gave what he’d constructed below the surface a name – house, structure, home.
The whole enterprise was a gamble, he knew; winter would be tough here, but the salvation of his ravaged soul made all the sacrifice – the unending, wind-blown solitude – worth the day he’d got up from his corner office, ripped off the silk tie and walked the 1,600 miles to this grassy knoll.
And in honor of Six Sentences – what can you say in six? – here’s a six-sentence story.
Homestead
It could have started as an outhouse, for all he knew – or cared; the shed had that old-timey construction where temporary meant to last 100 years of punishment on the prairie.
He’d taken it apart, carefully numbered the planks, noted where the square-head nails went, omitted the rusted tin roof, loaded it onto a wagon and pulled it to his little half-acre in the hills.
And thus began the modification from shed to living space.
He dug down into the rich, dark soil until he hit clay; he dug rooms, a root cellar and lined the dirt walls with straw bales and tossed the floor with tiny river cobble that made a satisfying crunch wherever he walked.
He reconstructed the shed over the pit (complete with new, galvanized tin) as a way of egress/ingress and maybe for esthetics, for all he knew; but it gave what he’d constructed below the surface a name – house, structure, home.
The whole enterprise was a gamble, he knew; winter would be tough here, but the salvation of his ravaged soul made all the sacrifice – the unending, wind-blown solitude – worth the day he’d got up from his corner office, ripped off the silk tie and walked the 1,600 miles to this grassy knoll.
Comments
i am begining on my third year alone in the wilds of west marin county california... i didn't build my own house.... but it ain't no deluxe accommodation either!!!
i really loved this... six sentences... who knew...