Wednesday, September 26, 2018

NORMAN ROCKWELL EAT YOUR HEART OUT

"He walked along the winding road that would take him into Beldam Woods, moving at a leisurely pace that still seemed to devour the distance. Though he had been walking for hours, he was not winded in the least. He had long since become accustomed to walking everywhere. 
His hair, a little longish for a young man, was almost preposterous on a man of his advanced age, but he carried it well. The wind was cold, whispering the threat of winter’s caress, just around the corner. His skin was pale and made paler still by the hint of frost that blew along the same path he’d chosen. Perhaps most would have been shivering in the frozen breeze, but he was not like other people. He never had been. 

The sun was not up,

though there was a change from dark blue to light in the sky to the east, and the moon, not quite full as yet, was on the western horizon and fading away at a rapid pace. The late night was working towards dawn proper when he crested the last hill and laid eyes on his goal in the distance. Beldam Woods was a small town, nestled in the geography of upstate New York. Not far from Utica, but not in any way a part of that community. In comparison, Utica was positively urban.
“Norman Rockwell eat your heart out.”

The sun crested the hills to the east, and cast the first rays of light into the town. He watched as the warming beams of luminescence touched the steeples on the two churches, turning the cross on the Lutheran Church into a golden beacon and defining the wrought iron crucifix on the Protestant house of worship. One of the two had been there when he’d last been in the town, but he was damned if he could remember which. The thought brought a thin smile to his bony face. He was, after all, damned either way. 


From where he stood he could see the town square, which had changed only in the shapes of the buildings, most of them replaced with brick and modern supplies, instead of the wooden structures he remembered from his youth. There was a modern school down there, big enough to seat a few hundred children, and not too terribly far from that one, he could see the campus of the private academy he had read up on. Watersford Academy for Advanced Children, which from what he’d seen in the brochures, specialized in catering to the obscenely wealthy. Between the two was a long stretch of land that was perfectly groomed and well fenced. Even from outside of the town proper he could see the horses munching contentedly on the lawns. The only livestock raised at most of the farms these days were thoroughbred championship equines. Of course, the region was well known for fresh vegetables as well, at least according to his brother, Patrick, who had never bothered to leave the area." --HARVEST MOON by James A. Moore

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