Country Roads, A Glimpse Into Rm Harrington History
If you are seeking a science fiction read, Country Roads is not for you. This is a flash piece, a glimpse into my past, a quick look at from where I came. Thus I label it a not-science-fiction snapshot of author Rm Harrington.
That is me. Rm Harrington. I operate this website. I do the writing, the posting and all of the background work. I do it because I like doing it. I also do it in the hopes of one day reaping a bit of income from my labors. Not that I have not and do not make income from writing. As a content-marketer, I have sold more than 6000 articles to Internet buyers. Problem is: only a few of the buyers post the work under my byline. However, you will find a few places that permit me to post using my own by line: Peek at American Cooling and Heating out in Arizona. A great company and a fine owner.
Ah, but let us get on with Country Roads. Although it has no core story-line, the tale does offer a sweet taste of old-style country living. Enjoy. And if you have a mind to do so, drop me your thoughts.
Thanks, Rm Harrington
Country Roads, A Not Science Fiction Short Story
a place to curl up and rest for a spell.
A gravel road cuts pass the tractor stall of a weathered barn with faded timbers and a rusty tin roof. The sweet scent of hay drifts through the open loft doors.
A chalk and rust hen scratches bugs from amid the dust ground. A cock, bold and proud, takes roost on the warped timbers of a rail fence. Down the way a bit, a yellow-pine pup wallows in the grass. Nearby and close, his flop-eared droop-jawed mother basks beneath the rays of a lemon sun.
Wings flap and a throaty screech pierces the silence; a flock of crows dive to the upper limbs of a black cherry tree. Down in the hollow where the stream flows, a lazy wind jars a twig from a white oak. The twig sputters through the air and then plunks amid the bubbling of the water. The current washes southeast.
From the pasture, the sound of hoofs pound on packed earth. The neigh of romping horses echoes through the glen.
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Treetops sway in the wind. Tissue clouds hurry across an aluminum sky. To the south and above the treetops, a granite-face mountain sets its jaw toward the northwest.
A two-story wood farmhouse stands at the crest of a grassy hill. Sunset curtains flap within the open windows. A wiry, moss-haired farmer lounges in a rocker on the front porch. His right leg crosses over his left. Calloused hands rest one-on-top the other upon his knees; his knuckles, knotted and swollen by a lifetime of struggle and toil, are too tender for the interweaving of fingers and hands that so often accompanies such a position of rest and comfort. The rivers of time have rutted his face. On his thin sloped shoulders, he carries the memories of two World Wars, a depression, and too many harvests that were either too dry or too damp.
He leans slightly forward, his head lowered and his eyes closed. Be he is not sleeping. His right heel flows up and down, pushing the rocker and keeping pace with the creaking of the runners.
Around back of the house, a humming bird whips amid the feeders on the porch, pauses for a drink and then quickly darts up and away into the orchard beyond the old gray wood shed. Honeybees buzz back and forth across the grass, pollinating clover, and then clover again.
Resting on the sun-warmed blocks of the back steps, a pine-and-rust cat carefully licks dirt from between her claws. A fly lights nearby. The cat’s ears prick. Her tail flicks slowly from side to side. After a moment, she rises tentatively to her feet.
Wire haired and barrel bellied, a future Babe Ruth races around the corner of the house, a black mutt trailing behind him. The fly cuts into the wind; the cat bolts; the boy points and laughs and pokes the dog with a catcher’s mitt that he carries closed in his hand.
Then, the pleasure settles and the boy wipes sweat from his soiled face. A brick hand-pump well house stands between the rear of the house and an old unused sawmill. Taking a few quick swipes at the insects that whine near his ears, the boy heads over for a drink.
After only three pumps of the handle, chill water begins to splash on the ground. Grinning, the boy takes hold of a resident metal dipper and catches the flow. After quenching his own thirst, he holds the dipper before the dog’s mouth. After all, friends share.
And then, dipper replaced, the lad slaps a gentle open palm across the dog’s head before racing off toward the hen house. The dog chases behind.
It’s Sunday afternoon and the day has just begun.