Digging Up A New Story

Some of you may have noticed that you haven't received a new short story in a few months. Well, there is a good reason for that. Actually, there are two good reasons.

Honestly, the first is that writing one story a month is not a pace I can maintain. When I started out on this adventure with the One Plan, I thought I could crank out new material faster. What I slowly learned is that I was getting further and further behind each month. Stories were being finished just in time, editing and revisions weren't happening the way I'd like, and it was getting stressful. Stress and me...we aren't the best of friends.

Secondly, I had a story that was going to be a simple little tale but turned into something much more. That story is called Piercing Soil, and it is going through a final edit right now. In all humility, I think it's one of the best pieces I've written. The time it has taken to craft this tale has reminded me of the joy (and pain) of writing something you can really get behind. The plan is to release Piercing Soil this month (May), bringing the total number of stories up to seven.

So, what does that mean for the remaining five stories? Here's the new plan. You will still get a total of 12 stories, you're just not going to get them in 12 months. If this messes too much with your life plan...my apologies. To make it up to you I've included the first part of Piercing Soil below.

Thank you for reading and supporting my work. It's always good to hear from you and your thoughts surrounding the people, places, and ideas in my fiction.

Stay it touch!

-Nate

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PIERCING SOIL

BY NATE BARKER

1912-1950

“Hello, my old friend,” she calls softly. “We have work to do, you and I.”

Words that again start a cycle.

She lifts me from the shed wall—long winter sleep broken—a light sharpening by the honing stone, handle firmly grasped in weathered hands; experience and expectation guiding the turning of a small plot, now brown, soon green, then a rainbow of color and flavor.

It feels good to pierce the soil. Green grass parting. Compact earth giving way. The coolness of the land against my face; inhaling the moist residue of centuries. Her boot firmly against my back, emerging full; a tight burden of brown lifted on my gleaming steel. Sunlight and fresh air kissing the hidden, like a newborn emerging from the womb. The freedom of the release as the air moves across my back—burden let loose—dark clumps turned and broken. Excavating the past and becoming filled with dreams of the future.

The spring never disappoints.

We work as one. Weathered hands and curved steel, carving the land. Sculptor, tool, and sculpture in unison of plan and purpose.

The work is not all labor, and from above the weathered hands comes a half-whispered tune; the melody, older than the lips that sing it.

We have planted,

in our garden,

lots of maize and mangelwurzels;

From the churchyard,

rats of all kinds,

came and ate them all up.

Get you home, you thieving rats,

or we’ll buy a dozen cats.

Get you home, you thieving rats,

or we’ll buy a dozen cats.

Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!

With every other line we pierce and flip—the earth turned upside down. A sleeping giant prodded and poked, encouraged to reveal secrets. The worms wake and attempt their slow scurry. Ants, perturbed, scold and fuss. We slip past them, cutting, digging; there is joy in the undulation.

Lifetimes ago, on the pegs of the mercantile, with its smells of burlap and lantern oil, the soil seemed a distant dream to me. Hanging polished to gleaming, strong steel and stout shaft held only an idea of what accomplishments awaited. There was no time before this, only a brief memory of fire, of pounding, of cool water and soft wood’s caress. After that, the hands, not so weathered then, not so experienced, purchased freedom.

“That’ll be a dollar twenty-five, Miss Ludlum.”

“My! So much.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her soft eyes reflected in the shine of my steel.

“Come. We have much to accomplish.”

~ ~ ~

Winter has come again; the cold, the dark, roots that gave life, now dormant or dead. They betray the garden’s beauty these past months. Cucumbers climbed high trellises. Squash, with lazy arms, claimed more than their fair share of allotment. Strong tomato vines struggled, overburdened with red starbursts. Even finicky stalks of corn held their yellow tasseled heads high.

It was a pleasure to be of use in the birth of this Eden, to be a midwife to abundance. When the weathered hands of a gracious soul guide and plan, it is an honor to be a helpmate.

But now, rest after a season of indulgence is welcome. The cold of the shed chases the heat of summer and brings tensile resilience—refreshment. Long dark nights, reserved for dreams of slicing the soil under a new sun, birth conviction to persuade it once again to give up its rich secret longings. Rest is the pillow on which reflections can dream.

~ ~ ~

The taste of spring is in the air again. I can taste the thawing and budding through the thin boards of the shed wall. Soon it will be time for us to work.

~ ~ ~

Summer. The weathered hands have not come. The first time in decades.

~ ~ ~

...to be continued.