WRITING

General thots on writing.

SCRIPT-WRITING

Stepping to the other side of the camera has been a real adventure. Having been a director and photographer for years, it has been a relief to not be responsible for the shot, but for the character.

SHORT STORY

The art of the short story. "In the Middle of the Day."

NOVEL

Novel. "Royal Blue"

BUSINESS PLAN

Gluten-X, Rockstation, Skatekat

LOGOS • DESIGN • ILLUSTRATIONS • WRITING

MUSIC • ACTOR • MODEL • SPOKESMAN

In The Middle of the Day

By David G. Steputis

The kids had always considered the place haunted.  Even their folks seemed uneasy talking about the ramshackle manse.  Mostly they just changed the subject or reminded the kids of their chores when pressed.  So the house wasn’t much talked about.

That changed when the new, city kid came along.  They harassed him a bit, like country boys will do, but he seemed up to their taunts.  He handled the garter snakes and toads well.  Showed them a thing or two.  The city kid had punched Billy Roy back, bloodied the bully’s nose, then took his beating pretty good.  He’d told them about the inner city where he’d come from too, that was really a scary place.  Crack dealers was even more a threat than an old, abandoned house.

Still, the city kid seemed like he had to prove himself to his new buddies.  He said, “That old house don’t scare me.  You seen a junkie going nuts, screaming at you and nothing seems so weird after that.  Let’s go check it out.”

So they took their bikes, the four locals and the city kid.  They packed some stuff like flashlights, a scout knife and a splintered hatchet handle that they figured could do a ghost some damage.  That is, if anything could do a ghost damage.  Besides they’d go at noon and, after all, not much could happen in the middle of the day.

The place was outside town, not too far. Riding there though seemed a chore, like they was riding uphill or into the wind.  Passing a farm they watched a tractor tilling over last season’s crop, burying the stalks so’s the new wheat would grow.  It seemed reassuring, somehow, the field hand going about his work. The dust rose and the thrum of the working equipment reverberated and clattered.  Though they was headed to the old house, it was all very normal in the world.  They shared a canteen of water and checked why it was so hard to peddle.  Maybe their bikes needed grease or something.  Maybe they should turn around, but the sun was high, and, after all, not much could happen in the middle of the day.

They drew closer and they could see the thicker trees surrounding the house.  Now there was a bit of a hill to ride up and soon they were off the bikes and pushing.  City kid, knowing he could not back down, was leading.  Looking up as the longer branches of the fir trees passed overhead, he saw a few birds and that too seemed normal enough.  He could begin to see the outline of the house, two stories, upper windows with some curtains maybe.  The windows reflected things which seemed to move as the boys pushed onward.  He’d looked forward to chucking some rocks through the windows, but now he figured they better not.  He laid his bike down and the others followed.  They wouldn’t be calling him city kid after today.  He noted that his three companions seemed calm, resolved even, like him.  After all, not much could happen in the middle of the day.

Walking in a line, they followed the driveway as it curled up the hillock. City kid wondered if it might be best to sneak along their own way, hiding, but no one had lived here that anyone could remember.  The house loomed closer, bigger, darker.  He realized they hadn’t said a word for a bit.  The wind was up a little and it had cooled and a cloud or two was covering the sun.  The birds had quieted and though he still could glimpse the distant farmer working his machine, city kid couldn’t hear it.  Must be a country thing, thicker air maybe.

They walked into the turnabout driveway, brazenly now it seemed, exposed.  The curtains or the reflections or something in the windows seemed to shift.  He could smell the house, musty or a more familiar scent, homelike.  The gravel beneath their feet made scant grindings as city kid and his two buddies neared the stairs.  The local boys carried their hands in their pockets with that ‘awe shucks’ attitude of country lads, as did city kid too.  No one spoke; no need.   After all, not much could happen in the middle of the day.

He mounted the first steps leading to a veranda that encircled the house like the skirts of his ma’s best white dress.  He looked then to pa’s fresh whitewash job.  It made the whole house gleam as the sun came from behind the clouds.  His pal had noticed it too.  They smiled at each other then city kid turned to the door.  

Ma’s special cornbread was cooking and that meant ham hocks and beans, his favorite.  The crack of a distant whip echoed across the valley as their hired man goaded the team on.  Pa and the hand would be in from the field for supper.  Chores needed doin’ before they came.   Alone, city kid grasped the lever and entered the house.  After all, not much could happen in the middle of the day.