Still Well Stirred

Writing Club Exercise #2

Dec 3 2013

Prompt: Write a story using the following characters:

An eccentric 54 yr. woman

An anxious 22 yr. man

            
Theme: rivalry, someone is trapped
Setting: A cabin

Solomon came running up to the porch as fast as his lanky legs would carry him without snapping like string beans.  “Mr. Samuel be stuck in the well down the mire.”  He spit the words out as breath permitted.

Betty simply sat in her old rocker and continued her knitting.  Without even a glance, she answered in her usual gravel voice.  “He be fine, son.  We let him sit an hour or two.  He learn that old bucket ain’t his to be fetching.  T'be yours.  You’ll mind better next time and not be running yonder with them good fer nothins’ Codder boys.” 

She got off to muttering.  “Old fool man.  Always be wanting me to make him that yam soup and apple pies.  Washing his trousers cuz he gots them in the dust bowls ‘gain.  Corn be messy.  Maybe it’d be easier to let him drown.  Na, he’d foul the well and what would we drink.  Solomon’d have to haul water from the river out a mile and a piece.”

Solomon was pacing now in wide loops and it was driving her batty.  Her thoughts rolled over like stones.  ‘If he had a lick of wisdom like his namesake, he’d get a rope and Ole Horace the mule from his pen and go haul that good for nothing Sam out of his fix.'  But everyone knew that Solomon was dull as a brick.  

“Yer gonna wear a hole in nature’s carpet.  Look at the bald spot at your feet.  A perfect crop circle ever I’d seen one,” Betty complained.

Enough was enough and this rock wasn’t going to get rolling if she didn’t heave it.  With a huff and a wheezing grunt, she heaved her heavy body from the chair.  She regretted her recent daily double bowl of them grits.  Her great effort to stand caught Solomon’s eye and he paused from his circling frenzy to take her arm and half haul her along from the porch in expectation.

“Ne’er mind me boy, be getting to Horace.  I’ll follow.  If Mr. Samuel ain’t drowned yet fetching water for his still, maybe I’ll get to helping him it there’s a mite left to swallow.  Ole Fool.”

Solomon loped across the yard to the leanto where Horace waited and led him towards the lumbering Betty as she climbed up on her stool as always at the fence and as of yet to this very day the weathered wood held her weight.  Horace gave a welcoming bray as Betty pulled out the carrot concealed in her deep-pocketed green cardigan.  The munching beast barely seemed to notice his habitual burden as Solomon led down the gravel path. 

Betty always loved the scent of the fermenting grain.  It was money in the bank round these parts.  The still was still cooking hot.  Smoke fire going up in great plumes.  A beauty of a sight to be sure.  There in the green at the bottom of the hill sat the pile of stones that made up the mouth of the well.  Their slow descent was serenaded with a shrill cry of hallelujah intermingled with bubbles. 

“It ain’t his salvation he be looking forward to.” Betty noted. “He’s well marinated, he be.” 

To which, Solomon replied with a toothy smile, “I threw him the barrel ta help him float.”