Looks like my photos didn't link in. Oh well. Who likes to draw? I have a story I've been working on for 4 years. I'm not in the scene. I don't know the rules. I'm an outsider. I'm DIY.
706 SE 47 Ave.
Portland OR, 97215
The Golden Barn
Full-page illustration. Night.
A flatboat burning on a small river.
CAP: Chickamauga, 1863
CAP: Nebraska, 1878
A trail of blood runs between stalks of corn.
Large hands carry the ankles of someone wearing boots.
A body is being dragged through here:
I didn’t ask whether you believe that people see ghosts. I asked if you believe that there are ghosts.
--Svidrigailov, Crime and Punishment
Day. Robust fields stretch to the horizon.
CAP: Nebraska, 1888.
From a distance we begin to see the farm.
There are a few trees on the property, a single sod house, windmill, corral and a barn. The ramshackle barn is bigger than the house. Its sides are weathered and cracked. The roof has holes. Next to the barn the corral pens a few cows and pigs. The fence of the corral is crooked and falling apart.
Here is a barn.
Here is the sod house.
Here is the windmill.
An old organ stands freely on the lawn in front of the sod house.
Here is a picture of the organ:
In the background, by the door of the house, stands an old man. This is THE FARMER (Enos Pennington). He is 6'6', sinewed. He dresses like a Quaker but underneath is Charles Bronson. A scar runs across his face. Scornful eyes, a bushy mustache. He is about seventy-five. His dog stands beside him.
A child, about fourteen years old, exits the house. This is FRANCOIS. A shovel rests in his hand. He wears a Union soldier’s forage cap and a baggy army blouse. A Union-issued canteen hangs around his neck. He has a worried look.
The Farmer picks up his own shovel with its large and menacing arrowhead-shaped scoop.
It has a rope tied to the handle end and where the scoop meets the shaft. He straps the shovel to his back like a rifle. Using two free arms he lifts a ladder from the ground. The Farmer and Francois begin walking, the dog follows.
From above we see them snaking through the cornfield.
Then we see them at eye level moving between the stalks.
The Farmer leads with the ladder, Francois in the middle and dog at the end. They stop in a small, circular clearing.
The Farmer peers at a patch of soil. Kneeling, he runs his fingers through the loam. We see The Farmer from up close.
He puts the point of the shovel into the surface of the ground. His foot now on the flat surface of the shovel’s shoulder. He presses down. Drives the shovel downwards.
Wide view of the tiny sod house, the endless fields, the broken barn. The sun passes in the sky, then hangs low over the cornfield.
The Farmer sits on the ground. A large, black pile of dirt, obscured by his body, looms behind.
A wide view reveals the mountainous tower of dirt. Francois curiously eyes it. He can't see its top. It could be as tall as a skyscraper. It appears to go infinitely upward.
The ladder sits in the hole. We see only the top of it sticking out. Then, from above, we view the great depth of the pit. It is comically deep. An abyss. We can't see where the ladder touches down at its floor.
The Farmer descends on the ladder. Deeper and deeper into the opaque.
The moon is up. Francois picks his nose. The dog licks his butt.
Hands over the top rung of the ladder.
The man climbs out holding antlers. He holds them up to the sky like a trophy. They glimmer against the moonlight.
I wasn’t dreaming.
The Farmer tosses the antlers on the ground.
Thought I’d forgotten...
Like an ax he raises his shovel.
...he’s come back.
He smashes the antlers.
Pieces of the the broken antlers cover the dusty ground.