BHS Young Writer's 2011 Entry: Farm — Part III of VI

Rain broke out across the farm that night. It was first patchy and scattered but quickly picked up momentum and became a heavy shower. Jeb had gone out to plantation to gather the tools that Will had forgotten when he went home that morning.

Jeb cradled the tools carefully in his arms, shielding them from rust with his narrow shoulders. He was prepared to scuttle back inside when a sudden cry tore through the pouring rain. He turned at once, startled. The tools fell one by one from his arms, dancing, swimming, in the rain, before they plopped unceremoniously into the mud.

It was Will.

He had run out from the house. Dirty tears ran down his porcelain cheeks. They were out of place: tears did not belong on a face that smooth, that delicate, that cherubic. Jeb shuddered. He could not find words to speak. He knew something had to be wrong, had to be terribly wrong.

Lightning erupted. Its piercing white light was distorted into shards by the cascading rain drops. Each shard fell against his skin, cut him open. He was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding already, but the pain didn’t stop. Please, he thought.

Lighting exploded again, colored his face phantom-white against the blood. Please, please, please. He stared into his brother’s eyes, silently pleading for an answer.

“He’s dead.”

The dog. Oh God, the dog. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind: the dog’s patient dark eyes, focused on him, waiting, waiting, waiting for the signal that never came. His signal.

His brothers voice was tight as he explained. “He-he-he never came home. I wanted to go out and look for him, but dad said to—to wait, to wait because it was too dark. Then Mr. Bishop, from—from church, he just came by a-and said that he’s dead. That the coyotes go him. And he’s sorry.”

As Will spoke, Jeb’s breathing slowed. He watched his brother’s face carefully, waiting until he had finished.

There was a pause.

Jeb looked up and squinted against the rain. His face was expressionless, his voice hard.

“Come on, Will,” he said. His voice threatened to crack. He cleared his throat. “We’re going home.”

Check back Tuesday afternoon for Part IV.