Vignette 2
In the grass by the evergreen windbreak to the east, a clock-tower. Its construction is curved; the tower weaves left and right like a child’s drawing of water. The clock itself is faced on a background of stars, set in an irregular frame and topped with a cherub in contemplation. A small guitar springs from the grass next to the angel.
The whole thing is possessed of strange curlicues and dischordant lines. The door presents a barred window, a sinuous handle to the left, and a ball on each top and bottom. It does not look like a friendly place to sit.
Abandoned and alone, the tower sits on the frontier, its angel watching out over the countryside for whatever sin it might find.
Thomas Goodard saw it first when he came to look at the property for purchase. Two full acres of good, arable land. It had been wheatland for a long while, though he had designs on canola. The little mobile home on the top of the hill had been pleasant enough, and the horses that grazed on in the field next to his were friendly. He wasn’t a farmer, born and raised in the city, but he didn’t need to raise canola to eat; his art more than paid for him to live.
When he’d looked out at the windbreak for the first time, the clock-tower sold him on the property. It was quirky and fun and so unlike anything he had ever seen that he needed to own it. The realtor had told him some secret history to the tower, but he’d only half-listened. The history wasn’t as important as the thing itself. It was glorious.
He’d never inspected the tower. Every few years, he’d go out and touch up the paint, always chosing exactly the same hues as the originals. He’d had half a mind to make it more vibrant, to darken the blues of the midnight sky or brighten the yellow around the door. He’d always wondered at the wood-grain of the shelf above the door, the strange cranny that seperated the door from the clock at a height of six feet, but he never painted it. Varnish, sure, but he’d never altered a thing on the tower. Years after his passing, it looks exactly the same as it did when he lived.
Some of the local folk say his ghost haunts the old tower. Those people are all silly. He loved it, but the man’s gone. The realtor, long since moved to another town or city, has never told another soul the truth about the thing. It’s better that way. Goodard would have liked the mystery.
Another stolen picture, this one from Tatielle’s cousin, Lolitas. While it’s certainly not my best work, I’m enjoying these little scenes.
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