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.
5 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.
Really enjoyed this post—great atmosphere and sense of place. The rural scenes and the quiet tension throughout reminded me of working in remote areas where you'd least expect to find something like a putting green installation. Strange how life brings together such different worlds. Looking forward to reading more from this series.
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