George pushed up his shirt sleeves and rolled his shoulders, staring across the flat, desolate bog to the low hills beyond. Taking hold of his sleán, a two-sided turf spade, he sliced down into the face of the dark, moist peat and lifted a slither free, tossing it sideways onto uncut scrub. He repeated the action a dozen times, paused, mopped his brow, scanned the horizon, then continued his work, finding his rhythm. It was a fine, dry day and by twilight he’d have next year’s supply cut, an aching back and a tumbler of whiskey held in calloused hands.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
4 comments:
Rob - A really nice sense of scenery and a good sense of what it feels like to cut turf. Well done as ever.
Very nice indeed, Rob.
Then the spade edge clinked against the first bone . . .
I had the blade hit a bone, then decided not to go that way. Preferred just the simplicity of a day of turf cutting.
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