Doug Ross @ Fiction

An eclectic stew of fiction... and more fiction (Visit my blog)

In 1932, when I was a young child, I used to run down a dirt road to my Granpappy's house.  He lived on the farm next door, in a clapboard house at the edge of his 120-acre wheat field.  There was no running water, of course, just a well that served cool crisp water year 'round.  Tugging on the handle with all my might, I'd crank the filled bucket slowly up to the lip of the well.  On a hot summer day, nothing was better than drinking from Granpappy's well.

After chores each summer morning, my brother and I played stickball, hide-and-go-seek, and explored the woods at the far edge of Granpappy's land.  The woods abutted the field and the road to town and was full of wildlife and unspoiled vegetation.  My brother and I never saw anyone else in the woods all the time we lived there.  That is, other than the time we met the traveler.