I didn't manage to write anything for the Christmas week for
Mid-Week Blues-Bustermostly, because I was too busy, but also because the song didn't work for me. But the New Year song did. It was very Bluesy, and I got a very middle America vibe from it, so that is what I went with. I struggled with the story and where I wanted to go with it, keeping in mind the word limit, and I felt very 'meh' about it, but it still caught the judges eye, who gave it a third place, which pleased me no end. It's always interesting what other people read into your stories.
The prompt song was:
Slow Train, by Joe Bonamassa
Jefferson sat out on the
veranda, enjoying the late afternoon sun. He had a good view from here, could
see the track up on the ridge and knew the train would be coming soon; he could
set his clock by it. And he knew he had to go and meet it soon too, although
for now he was content to watch this one pass.
He’d thought it through many times, watched himself in his
minds eye take that walk up the hill to the ridge. How he would look back
across the land he’d lived on for the better part of his life, as the sound of
the engine grew louder. He’d have no regrets.
He’d lived with Eileen for enough years now to know that
regrets were a bad thing. He watched her wallow so deep, consuming herself with
grief for what could have been. He’d tried at the beginning to pull her out of
it, but it got too hard. She’d suck him right in too, if he’d let her. But he
wouldn’t. Damn, somebody had to be here, work the place, and remember what
living was for!
He wondered if they’d be there waiting for him, wondered
what they looked like, and if they’d recognise him. He’d spent his life
wondering those things, but now he could feel the clock ticking harder, and
couldn’t hold off for much longer. Although while he could still rock here in
the chair and drink his beer, he wasn’t in a hurry; the sun was yet to get down
and reveal the night lanterns in the sky, along with a full moon lighting up
the land with its eerie brightness. He wanted to see that one more time at
least.
Then her voice came, dispelling his daydreams, calling for
him to come tend to her, and he felt the pull again. Maybe tonight would be a
good night, he could see his way up the ridge in the full moon. He knew what
time the train would be coming.
He went into the house and up the stairs to the bed he’d
shared with her for what felt like forever, and saw her all swallowed up by
life. There was little he could do for her now but give comfort. Her breathing
was short and he didn’t think she’d make the morning, although it wasn’t the
first time he’d thought that. He looked through the medicines by the bed and
thought about his trip up to the ridge. Watching her made him feel more
restless than ever. He patted her arm as he gave her what she needed, and
stroked her hair. With her quieted he knew it was time.
With nothing more than his wallet in his pocket and his best
jacket on, he stepped off the veranda and started the climb. The light was now
caught between the setting of one and the rising of the other, its
juxtaposition putting the house behind him in darkness with the light in front.
He paused as he always dreamed he would, just before the top, and looked back
at the home he had built for them.
From this position he could just make out the side yard and
the three dark crosses in the shadow by the house. She wanted them near, she’d
said, so they knew where home was, even though they’d never lived in it. As
they’d brought each one back from the hospital, he’d dug their graves, burying
a little piece of himself along with them.
He turned then, at that thought, and headed on to meet the
train. He could hear it now, travelling along the ridge. It would be here soon,
and he would be there to meet it. And he hoped they would be there too, as he
stepped out on the tracks and faced the big engine at full speed.
