Dark, Deep-laid Plans

Hiver (ou Le loup dans la neige), Félix Bracquemond, c. 1860

Tromp, tromp, tromp.

“Yeah, I know, but this whole goddamned place looked different in the summertime. It shouldn’t take much longer.”

Tromp, tromp, tromp. The wind whistles, snow crunches underfoot.

“Jesus. I’ve never seen so much snow.”

Tromp, tromp, tromp.

“Okay, I think this is it. At least this looks like the tree.”

Clank!

“Great, the ground’s frozen. No, no, don’t worry, I got this…”

Clank! Chop! Chop! Crunch!

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Snap!

“Fuck.”

Skritch, skritch, skritch.

“Woah, woah, put that away, this is no big thing. You know I’d never fuck with you. Let’s just go back to the car for the other shovel.”

Tromp, tromp, tromp.

“How should I know? You weren’t exactly leaving a trail of bread crumbs either. Sorry, sorry! Look, I can’t see any better than you. Who knew the blizzard of the century would happen today? C’mon, it’s this way… yeah, I’m sure…”

Tromp, tromp, tromp.

This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s journal, originally published January 12th, 2008, in New York.