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July 10, 2009

Random Stories: The Small Wooden Box

The old man sat quietly leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowly fixed on one solitary object—a small wooden box placed on the edge of the mantle at the opposite end of the room. The box was painted in the color of dark red wine with a heavy lacquered finish that reflected the glow of candlelight from a table top nearby. Above the table the steady flame cast long graceful shadows on the wall and the faint smell of melting wax and smoke spiraled upward, lingering in the air, burning his throat.

Standing up he stepped forward, then paused for a moment to stretch his back—leaning forward, then backward, and finally from side to side. Looking out across the lawn he pushed the large windows wide open, and breathing in he could smell the cool, damp Atlantic air. Watching as the first storm passed he noticed that darkness had quickly set in as heavy fog began to settle along the far horizon, erasing any visible division between earth and sky. At this point he knew his plans for the evening must change, as the roads would be treacherous and nearly impossible to navigate.

Reaching high above his head he pulled a bottle of single malt scotch from the top shelf of the cupboard, pouring what would be his one and only drink. Resolute in his decision to remain clear of mind he returned the bottle to the shelf and placed the single shot of scotch, neat on a table near the fire. From the mantle he took the wooden box and with one finger gently opened the tiny metal latch, removing the contents of the box and then replacing it on the mantle. The single sheet of linen paper was worn around the edges but folded neatly into thirds and sealed with a stamp of dark red wax. Pulling his chair up to the light has sat and gently opened the letter, taking care not to damage the edges of the paper any further.

As he began to read, his eyes filled with tears and the soft sound of her voice surrounded him. He studied the angles and curves of each word and tried to remember her face, her eyes, and her hands. Her letter was both a comfort and a curse and he wondered if he could ever move on. Taking one final sip he savored the last smooth burn, and reaching into the desk drawer pulled out a pen and paper to write:

Beyond the forest 100 miles

Across a valley vast and deep

The body of my true love lies

Breathless in forever sleep

Resting there beneath the stones

Without my warm embrace

Lies nothing more than flesh and bones

And shadows of her face

I’ll dream your breath upon my skin

Like wind across the sea

And hold your love within my heart

Tis here you’ll always be.

Satisfied and comforted by his final response he folded his letter with hers and returned them both to the small wooden box. Carefully securing the latch he returned to the mantle and knelt as if to pray, and after a moment or two of silence, he gently placed the box in the fire—staring at the flames as it burned.

July 09, 2009

Thank you for visiting East Acre Wood!

Now that you're here, please be sure to visit the Archives. To complete your search including older items, please click ON the word Archives. This will take you to the entire East Acre Wood library. Prints are available. For information please contact: eastacrewood@gmail.com.

Random Stories: Morning Light

Reaching across the table she pulled a small packet of sugar from a wooden box, emptying the contents into her cup and stirring slowly. Bringing the hot liquid up to her mouth she paused briefly, taking care not to drink too quickly, remembering the last time she burned her lips.

Looking out across the field she thought the view looked especially beautiful this time of day. The sun, still low in the eastern sky sent soft beams of light streaming through the trees like a thousand long fingers reaching out through the woods.

Kathryn loved the early hours of the morning, before the noise and clatter of a long, busy day. This was her time to sit and think, to contemplate and consider all that needed to be done. And today would be an especially challenging day, one that would require careful planning and great attention to detail.

With one last sip she returned her cup to its saucer, brushing away the last tiny bits of her morning cake. Pushing herself up she wrapped the belt of her long white robe snug around her waist and retreated upstairs to bathe and dress for day.

July 08, 2009

Archives: Summers Past

When the weather will not cooperate and the schedule does not permit, there are always the memories of another day.

Coming Home_1Vineyard Deck ChairsBeach Chair originalShells-croppedVineyard Sand and SeaStones-croppedSeascapeSummer sky_1Point_judith

July 03, 2009

Cape Cottage

Cottage

Greyscape

Sea Siding

June 24, 2009

Nature Study

Birds and bees and bugs and trees and rusty bits of this and that,

Digging holes and finding bones discarded by the neighbor's cat,

Raking leaves and stacking stones, and weaving vines and wire,

Stiff and sore from turning soil is the life that I desire.

Small Nature Study

June 19, 2009

Look at Me! Ouch!!

Emma

Last night, the little girl dog went flying off the bed like Bat Girl, chasing after her brother—The Joker. Anyone who knows anything about Jack Russell Terriers knows they’re very, very funny. I couldn’t love these two more, and like any parent of any creature, I always feel sad when they hurt.  After her leap into mid air, Emma has found that she’s not as young as she used to be, and landing hard doesn’t come as easy as it once did. She’s very sore today, and not moving so quickly. She’ll recover, but she won’t be flying again anytime soon.