The
Fields
J. David Bethel
Copyright © 2012 by J. David Bethel
Smashwords
Edition
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The shack was in the fields not far from the house. I used to ride my bike there almost every day. A tangle of streets, sidewalks, houses and lawns now layer the area so thickly, I can’t remember exactly where it stood.
We were the second or third family to move into the neighborhood, then a new tract surrounded by a vast green moat of undeveloped land. The high grass, wild shrubs and trees offered a continent of adventure for a young boy and within days after arriving, I carved a domain out of the bush. The fields became my province; my refuge. There wasn’t a far corner I didn’t investigate or a square yard left unexplored, with the exception of the shack. It was a lure, but the well-worn path leading to a misshapen, unkempt hedge, and that dim light flickering through the windows late most afternoons made me wary.
It wasn’t until I retraced my steps around the fields for a number of weeks that I approached the shack. No marked change of landscape separated the fields from this building. Grass and weeds waded under the remnants of a hedge through the yard and reached up the walls. A rusty gate, almost hidden by the growth, faced an opening in the ravel where an obscured stone path extended to the door. The shack was a moldy brownish green, this color long ago replacing a cover of paint.