“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” — Flannery O’Connor
Greetings friends + fam. I’ve been on the road the last couple of weeks and didn’t make the push to get my one-sentence journal published. I’m trying to remedy that by publishing a 650-word short story I wrote for a local MT contest.
The contest theme was to select a historic MT photo and build on it. I had fun writing this up on a(nother) windy day in McAllister.
More to come.
Screen Shear
by Greg Valitchka
His body was tired in a way he hadn’t felt before, but always had a hunch he would feel someday. Scattered clouds rolled overhead and formed gaps in the ceiling of the sky. The first week of sheep shearing had been the longest of Mo’s short life. Frank, his childhood friend, had convinced Mo to leave the family farm in North Dakota. Frank said Mo could make good money and send it back home. If Frank could do it, Mo figured he could too.
Mo knew next to nothing about shearing sheep, though he arrived callused from working the windswept prairies alongside his father. As a newcomer in the pens he took on the role of “dagger”. This entailed trimming the manure-soiled wool from around the sheep’s rear end. Initially Mo wasn’t thrilled with his new rear-end role, but he gradually came to terms.
Frank kept spirits high even though the men hadn’t taken a day’s rest in two weeks. Long days blended with long nights, sleeping in the open air, dreaming under a great twinkling sky, giving Mo just enough hope for the next day. He imagined the high country lakes they’d fish that summer.
Towards the end of the season, Mo’s body no longer ached when he worked. He entered into some kind of mindlessly mindful state of focus, moving with intention and even skill. Every little movement was more thoughtful, expending the least amount of energy, yet getting the best result. As his ability increased, so too did his capacity for daydreaming. For 17-year-old Mo, the world unfolded in front of him every time he picked up his shears.
Peter was deep in dream when his alarm shook him back to reality. His eyes were barely open, but he already felt cold dread seep into his bones. It didn’t take long for the dream to fade and the anxiety to swell. It was Monday morning and he faced another week in a stale office as a logistics coordinator at the Amazon warehouse.
He checked his phone and immediately got fed a story about AI’s imminent takeover. Before slipping further away into the digital abyss, Peter hit the side button on his phone and his home screen flashed in front of his glowing face. It was a photo of his great-great-grandfather, Mo, and a sturdy group of men taken in 1906. Peter’s father gave him the photo when he was a child. He proudly told Peter that his family came from a line of hardworking men whose hands weathered to leather.
Peter’s little studio apartment was built in the early 1900s and the floorboards taunted him as he stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee – which he felt was one of the few things in life he could count on. To the left of the smudged microwave was a book his childhood friend Ray dropped off a few days ago. It was a short story by Anton Chekhov. He had an hour before work, so he dove in with a hot cup of coffee.
The book had an immediate impact – like a pop from dry wood in a roaring fire. Peter felt the gaps in his life and the weight of the world was too much, too often. Every day his life felt less and less tangible, disconnected from purpose, and full of brightly lit screens. Something shifted as he read, something colossal, but undefinable.
Almost as if possessed, Peter picked up his phone, called his boss, and quit. After he hung up, he glanced at Mo’s face and felt a pang in his soul. Next, he called his buddy Ray to tell him the news. Ray was surprised but excited for Peter. Ray spent his days making custom tables and chairs. He told Peter he would teach him a thing or two about woodworking if interested. If Ray could do it, Peter figured he could too.
