Opening of Short Story 'Treasure'
Posted: February 26th, 2011, 11:32 pm
Opening to a short story of mine I have got to first draft stage. I'm interested to find out if people enjoy the characters or not. Let me know either way.
When he returned, the shadow of the church had shortened. The grave was as he’d left it, flowers bowed in solemn repose and the half dug mound of dirt beside. A grunt came from the hole. That was new. He peered over the lip, standing as far from the edge as possible. His new loafers had yet to be marked and they still gleamed with that straight out of the box shine. An old man labored below, spade in hand. The lines on the back of his neck were deep and filthy black and the skin wrinkled. Sensing someone the old man looked up, squinting.
“Ah it’s you Anthony. Hope I’m not disturbin’ ya.”
“No, no Mr. Drafford, just seeing me gran.”
“Well how is she?” Mr. Drafford tugged at the lip of his cap, leaving a smudge of dirt.
“Um, still the same I guess.” The loafers shuffled back and forth.
“Ah well that’s good. She’s a good one that Miriam. Heh we had some fun back when. Aye that we did.” He drifted off into silence, staring at the mound of dirt. His muddy fingers tapped aimlessly on the spade’s handle. Then, without another word, he resumed digging.
Anthony stole a brief glance at the gravestone. Then back at the hole. Like a legion of boys before him the combined attraction of mud and mystery proved too much to resist. With a last guilty glance at the gravestone he edged closer to the old man.
“Whatcha’ doing?”
Mr. Drafford stopped and touched his cap again.
“Well now I don’t suppose it would hurt ta tell. Can you keep a secret young Anthony eh?” He raised one hand, cupped his mouth and stared up under eyebrows that appeared to grow independent of their owner.
The boy nodded and shuffled closer. A brief frown crossed his face as one shoe was scuffed with dirt. Mr. Drafford, satisfied with the answer, tapped his spade.
“I’m digging.”
There was silence. Awkward met flippant and neither seemed about to back down. Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets, he remained in place. Mr. Drafford grinned.
“Ah now, I can see you’re not a lad to be so easily swayed. And before you ask,” he held up a filthy hand, “I’m not digging a new one. I’m digging an old one.” The spade was thrust into the soil for emphasis.
“Why?”
“That’s a secret. Or not, I suppose it depends on your definition of secrecy.”
“Gran used to say secrets are only worth knowing if they’re worth sharing.”
“Well I wouldn’t want to argue with such a fine woman now would I?”
Anthony looked down in puzzlement. His Gran had been dead for over two years, but then again, old Drafford did have a reputation for strangeness. He drew closer to the edge as the old man spoke.
“You see, I’m digging because of what’s in here and up there.” He pointed first to his jacket pocket then to his temple. His finger left a dark spot on his sweat soaked skin. Mr. Drafford impaled the spade in the dirt and reached inside his jacket. His scrabbling hand duly returned with a faded piece of paper, which he opened with utmost care. His fingers shook, the paper fluttered and danced as he read.
When he returned, the shadow of the church had shortened. The grave was as he’d left it, flowers bowed in solemn repose and the half dug mound of dirt beside. A grunt came from the hole. That was new. He peered over the lip, standing as far from the edge as possible. His new loafers had yet to be marked and they still gleamed with that straight out of the box shine. An old man labored below, spade in hand. The lines on the back of his neck were deep and filthy black and the skin wrinkled. Sensing someone the old man looked up, squinting.
“Ah it’s you Anthony. Hope I’m not disturbin’ ya.”
“No, no Mr. Drafford, just seeing me gran.”
“Well how is she?” Mr. Drafford tugged at the lip of his cap, leaving a smudge of dirt.
“Um, still the same I guess.” The loafers shuffled back and forth.
“Ah well that’s good. She’s a good one that Miriam. Heh we had some fun back when. Aye that we did.” He drifted off into silence, staring at the mound of dirt. His muddy fingers tapped aimlessly on the spade’s handle. Then, without another word, he resumed digging.
Anthony stole a brief glance at the gravestone. Then back at the hole. Like a legion of boys before him the combined attraction of mud and mystery proved too much to resist. With a last guilty glance at the gravestone he edged closer to the old man.
“Whatcha’ doing?”
Mr. Drafford stopped and touched his cap again.
“Well now I don’t suppose it would hurt ta tell. Can you keep a secret young Anthony eh?” He raised one hand, cupped his mouth and stared up under eyebrows that appeared to grow independent of their owner.
The boy nodded and shuffled closer. A brief frown crossed his face as one shoe was scuffed with dirt. Mr. Drafford, satisfied with the answer, tapped his spade.
“I’m digging.”
There was silence. Awkward met flippant and neither seemed about to back down. Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets, he remained in place. Mr. Drafford grinned.
“Ah now, I can see you’re not a lad to be so easily swayed. And before you ask,” he held up a filthy hand, “I’m not digging a new one. I’m digging an old one.” The spade was thrust into the soil for emphasis.
“Why?”
“That’s a secret. Or not, I suppose it depends on your definition of secrecy.”
“Gran used to say secrets are only worth knowing if they’re worth sharing.”
“Well I wouldn’t want to argue with such a fine woman now would I?”
Anthony looked down in puzzlement. His Gran had been dead for over two years, but then again, old Drafford did have a reputation for strangeness. He drew closer to the edge as the old man spoke.
“You see, I’m digging because of what’s in here and up there.” He pointed first to his jacket pocket then to his temple. His finger left a dark spot on his sweat soaked skin. Mr. Drafford impaled the spade in the dirt and reached inside his jacket. His scrabbling hand duly returned with a faded piece of paper, which he opened with utmost care. His fingers shook, the paper fluttered and danced as he read.