Note – This was the first story I wrote as part of my rediscovery of writing. I originally wrote it in November of 2009, almost exactly 9 years ago. I wasn’t very happy with the end, but I had thought about expanding it to novel, or perhaps just novella, length. I never did and haven’t touched it since February of 2010. I hope you enjoy!
Mitch Longing was up early, well before 6, and witnessed the golden rays of sunlight as a new day unfolded across the crisp, stark November landscape. A whiff of Indian Summer was in the air. It will be a beautiful day.
The little nook on the second floor of Mitch’s house was a perfect spot for breakfast, a perch that overlooked the whole village, letting him see the people, following the sun’s invitation, start to stir and buzz around town.
Mitch’s across the street neighbor, Jim Hawton, who looked as if he had been lost trying to navigate through his mid 30s and had only recently been found wondering about in the territory between his late 50s and early 60s, was standing looking at the remnants of his garden. You would be excused if at first you mistook him for an old scarecrow waiting patiently for its owner to take it down for the winter, his back arched up as if on a pole, dark eyes staring across the garden. He stood unmoving, hoping somebody would come by to ask him what he was doing. He so much wanted to say, “Watching the frost sublimate”, but nobody asked, so Jim continued to stand and stare, his 20 foot shadow slowly shrinking down to 12 feet.
It’s not that Mitch could read Jim’s actual thoughts; it’s just that Jim’s thoughts were very predictable. If he wasn’t watching the frost sublimate, he’d be watching the pumpkins oxidize or be thinking of aerating his garden’s soil, though on a day like this Mitch bet on the sublimation of frost. Continue reading