Be “Still” my beating heart

Just finished another edit on Chapter eleven. So I thought I would share another excerpt. Here we find our character as he first enters the shed. He knows what will happen to him if he gets caught. But he has no other choice. As you read remember, he’s only eleven, put yourself in his place. How would you react.

Except: Chapter 11…”Karma is a fickle mistress”

To most folk, it’s just an old shed full of hog feed and tools. An ancient weather-worn building that looks like it might collapse at any moment if not for the briars and poison vines holding it up. Don’t let appearances fool ya, it’s true purpose lies hidden just inside, on the left just behind a weather weary 6-panel door. The ol’ man keeps it pretty well hidden with sacks of feed, rolls of barbed wire, and piles of rusted tools. 

I had to make sure and study how every sack and spool was stacked or placed. If even a single one was out of moved, the ol’ buzzard would know someone had messed with them for sure. 

I poked my head out one last time, making sure I wasn’t being watched, then quickly went to work. I was on a strict timeline cause the old man was sure to notice if I took too long. Once I had enough sacks moved to the side, I slid through a narrow opening. 

 There she was…the dim light gave “her” a menacing appearance. The bottom was covered in black soot, scars from years of green wood and coal fires. Age and use had turned her copper skin an ugly shade of olive brown, it’s no telling how old she was. A large copper pipe came from the top of her big belly, then into the top of a smaller barrel called a “thumper” (So, named because of the thumping sound it makes when filled with steam). A small copper coil called the “worm” came from the top of that tank and curled its way into another barrel. It’s empty now but gets filled with cool spring water when the Ol’ man is a cooking. A small outlet sticks out of the bottom, the Ol’ man usually has the bone from a coon’s pecker stuck in the end, (it’s a mountain thing), and liquor drips from the end of it into the jar. 

Sunlight entered the shed through gaps between the weathered boards. Eerie streaks of dusty sunlight tend to play strange tricks on the eyes. In this setting, it was easy to believe she was almost alive. Sleeping for now but waiting for the Ol’ man to come and wake her. I couldn’t help but to touch her, when I laid my hand on her I half expected to feel a heartbeat. But she was cold and dead. I lost myself for a few seconds I don’t know why, it was almost like she was trying to talk to me, but the cold made me shiver and snapped me from my trance. 

The back wall was stacked with shelves. On them sat jar after jar of liquid, some of them clear as spring water, others, golden amber like fresh honey. Realizing I had lost some time staring at the still, I picked up my pace a bit. My heart was beating out of my chest, and I could feel each beat in my head. I stuck a shaky hand into my pocket and pulled out the first bottle. 

I grabbed the closest jar and gave the lid a twist, nothing, my hands were so sweaty I couldn’t get a grip on the lid. What if they were on to tight? What would I do then? I put the jar back and choose another. Twisting as hard as I could, still nothing, to tight. In desperation I put it back, wiped my palm on my pants leg before grabbing another and twisting so hard that I bit my tongue. It turned, whew… now, how was I gonna get the whiskey poured into the little hole. I hadn’t thought of that. I thought of every-thing but that, how stupid could a person be? 

I looked around the dark room, there had to be something I could use, but what? Then out of the corner of my eye, in a beam of dusty light I saw a tattered notebook. Papaw’s recipes and inventory. I carefully tore a page from the rear and twisted it into a funnel. Taking great care, I poured the liquor into the small bottle, I was running out of time. If I tried to take a little out of several it would take too long, I was sure to get busted. 

I made the risky decision of pouring all three out of the one jar and then swapping places with another at the far corner of one of the shelves, maybe he wouldn’t notice. Poking the last of the bottles into my pocket, I left the room but not before making certain to replace the feed sacks and coils just right. By the time I was finished I was dripping with sweat even though it was thirty-five degrees. 

Published by The Tin Cup Clan

Mike had never considered himself an author until in his fifties an advanced cancer diagnosis for him to worry about the legacy he would leave for his children and grandchildren. Once the treatments began he needless to say, found himself with plenty of time to put pen to paper. The result was a culmination of stories soon to be named The Tin Cup Clan. A simpler time but not necessarily the greatest of times. The story of a group of young boys trying to survive the harsh reality of coal country, poverty, and just simply growing up. Along the way friendships are formed, old town mysteries are solved, and lessons are learned that will last a life time.

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