Book 1 – Released To Rapture
_______________________
Duncan thought he would be willing to sell
his left nut for a bath. He had hitch-hiked for three days, always
on the look-out for a pond, lake, or river to jump in, clothes and
all. This morning, he saw cypress trees beyond a field of corn and
asked the truck driver to let him off.
After vaulting the fencing at the side of the
interstate highway, he walked down a row of tasseled corn, running
his fingers across the golden fringes. He found himself smiling at
the feel of nature surrounding him. Scooping up a hand full of the
black dirt, he inhaled the rich scent of loam and tasted it. Hmmm,
too much phosphate.
Upon reaching the cluster of cypress trees,
he groaned in disappointment. Green slime covered the murky water.
He circled the marshy low-land, surrounded by verdant crops,
without finding a clean pool of water in which to bathe.
Giving up on having a bath, he pushed his
billed cap to the back of his head. He dropped to a log at the end
of a soybean field and looked around. At the end of the field, a
narrow road glittered in the sunlight. About a mile away, a house
and several barns clustered together. He rubbed the sweat from his
face and sighed. He needed to stop running and find work. That
meant confronting people. The thought made him cringe. Would he get
over feeling as if he lived with his past printed on his face?
Maybe, he should have gone to a city where
more opportunities were available. Yet, he craved the outdoors.
Before losing his freedom, he had lived most of his life on a farm.
He left the field and trudged along the two-lane asphalt country
road, hungry and tired. Topping a hill, a small country story
appeared, a precursor of the modern convenience store. He entered
and took a bottled coke from a chest cooler and popped off the top
on the opener mounted on the side. The old man behind the counter
looked him over with a critical eye when he passed over a dollar
bill. God, the man knew about him. A tremor skittered down his
spine.
“You looking mighty road-worn, son.” His
white, fluffy eyebrows wiggled, and he smiled while ringing up the
money. “Where ‘bouts you from?”
Duncan swallowed hard. “Yep, on the move for
quite a while.”
“Let me guess. You’re a military man, ain’t
you? Have a lost look about you I’ve seen in battle weary men that
have come home. Out now?”
His hand began to tremble, and he gripped the
coke bottle tighter. “Yes, sir. Just got out. Wore a uniform for a
long damn time.” He snatched up his change and started for the
door.
“Son.”
Duncan turned back and waited, feeling
trapped.
“You gonna’ be moving on down the road, or
would you be willin’ to hang around for a while? I know where a
strong man’s desperately needed. And you look mighty strong. That
is, if you’re foot-loose and fancy-free.”
“I plan to stay at the first farm where I
find work, food, and a bed. What’s on your mind?”
The old man’s face wrinkled into a smile, and
he held out his hand. “Carl Stanton, here. ‘Bout a quarter mile on
down the road is the farm that belonged to my brother, Clinton. His
daughter, Goldie, really could use some help. He retired and left
the place to her and her husband, Leven.”
Relieved, he nods to the oldster. “Much
obliged.” Attempting a smile, he opened the door and with a lift of
his hand, left.
Following Mr. Stanton’s friendly suggestion,
Duncan walked until a large road-side mail box with ‘Stanton’
printed on its side appeared. He followed the long, dirt path to
the farm house. The place needed a lot of care. Knee-high weeds
overtook the fencing, the door of the barn hung from one hinge, and
the horse looked as if it hadn’t been groomed in a year. A greasy,
stooped man cursed as he struggled with the innards of a rusty
tractor.
Duncan took a deep breath in disappointment.
This place looked like more than he wanted to deal with. He began
to turn away,
_______________________
Duncan thought he would be willing to sell
his left nut for a bath. He had hitch-hiked for three days, always
on the look-out for a pond, lake, or river to jump in, clothes and
all. This morning, he saw cypress trees beyond a field of corn and
asked the truck driver to let him off.
After vaulting the fencing at the side of the
interstate highway, he walked down a row of tasseled corn, running
his fingers across the golden fringes. He found himself smiling at
the feel of nature surrounding him. Scooping up a hand full of the
black dirt, he inhaled the rich scent of loam and tasted it. Hmmm,
too much phosphate.
Upon reaching the cluster of cypress trees,
he groaned in disappointment. Green slime covered the murky water.
He circled the marshy low-land, surrounded by verdant crops,
without finding a clean pool of water in which to bathe.
Giving up on having a bath, he pushed his
billed cap to the back of his head. He dropped to a log at the end
of a soybean field and looked around. At the end of the field, a
narrow road glittered in the sunlight. About a mile away, a house
and several barns clustered together. He rubbed the sweat from his
face and sighed. He needed to stop running and find work. That
meant confronting people. The thought made him cringe. Would he get
over feeling as if he lived with his past printed on his face?
Maybe, he should have gone to a city where
more opportunities were available. Yet, he craved the outdoors.
Before losing his freedom, he had lived most of his life on a farm.
He left the field and trudged along the two-lane asphalt country
road, hungry and tired. Topping a hill, a small country story
appeared, a precursor of the modern convenience store. He entered
and took a bottled coke from a chest cooler and popped off the top
on the opener mounted on the side. The old man behind the counter
looked him over with a critical eye when he passed over a dollar
bill. God, the man knew about him. A tremor skittered down his
spine.
“You looking mighty road-worn, son.” His
white, fluffy eyebrows wiggled, and he smiled while ringing up the
money. “Where ‘bouts you from?”
Duncan swallowed hard. “Yep, on the move for
quite a while.”
“Let me guess. You’re a military man, ain’t
you? Have a lost look about you I’ve seen in battle weary men that
have come home. Out now?”
His hand began to tremble, and he gripped the
coke bottle tighter. “Yes, sir. Just got out. Wore a uniform for a
long damn time.” He snatched up his change and started for the
door.
“Son.”
Duncan turned back and waited, feeling
trapped.
“You gonna’ be moving on down the road, or
would you be willin’ to hang around for a while? I know where a
strong man’s desperately needed. And you look mighty strong. That
is, if you’re foot-loose and fancy-free.”
“I plan to stay at the first farm where I
find work, food, and a bed. What’s on your mind?”
The old man’s face wrinkled into a smile, and
he held out his hand. “Carl Stanton, here. ‘Bout a quarter mile on
down the road is the farm that belonged to my brother, Clinton. His
daughter, Goldie, really could use some help. He retired and left
the place to her and her husband, Leven.”
Relieved, he nods to the oldster. “Much
obliged.” Attempting a smile, he opened the door and with a lift of
his hand, left.
Following Mr. Stanton’s friendly suggestion,
Duncan walked until a large road-side mail box with ‘Stanton’
printed on its side appeared. He followed the long, dirt path to
the farm house. The place needed a lot of care. Knee-high weeds
overtook the fencing, the door of the barn hung from one hinge, and
the horse looked as if it hadn’t been groomed in a year. A greasy,
stooped man cursed as he struggled with the innards of a rusty
tractor.
Duncan took a deep breath in disappointment.
This place looked like more than he wanted to deal with. He began
to turn away,
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