John Barton packed up his supplies and rode back down Tommycreek road
in the diection he had come. A part-time author and wanabe painter, he
had rented the farmhouse for a year in hopes of finding himself again . . .
somehow. The old two-story house offered what he needed right now,
seclusion and isolation. He'd had it with the rat race for awhile. He'd had
enough of agents yanking his chain in search of the almighty dollar. He'd
had enough of failed relationships that always seemed to take another
piece of his heart with them when they left. And they always left didn't
they ? He'd had enough of compassion playing second fiddle to greed all
the time nowadays. Maybe he was burned out, he didn't know. Maybe he
was an ass. And a pompous one at that. Lord knows he'd been called one
enough times. To find thy true self, maybe that's what he was doing. Or,
. . .or what ?
Clouds were beginning to appear as he pedaled his way home. The heat
was dissipating, and a faint wind was picking up. He rounded the corner
and came face to face with the fork in the road, and that chain. As he
neared the intersection he realized that the chain was heavy-duty stainless
steel, about 1/2" diameter. Tough stuff ! He noticed now that it ran
approximately 30 yards down this adjoining road, on both sides, until it
disappeared from view. Whew ! Someone really didn't want any company !
He climbed back into his seat and turned to the right, heading home.
He put away the groceries and supplies, then went out to move the bike to
a safer place should it indeed rain. Walking back from the small garage, he
noticed the red flag was up on his mailbox, and went over to investigate.
He couldn't remember ever seeing it up before, and it wouldn't make any
difference anyway as no mail was delivered anywhere on TommyCreek
road anymore. There were no legal addresses out here anymore ! All mail
was now dropped off at the general store for anyone who might be a
part-time resident, such as himself.
He re-set the red flag, pulled open the mailbox, and saw the letter ! He was
dumbfounded, and suddenly angry. His solitude had been breached !
He carried the letter into the house and sat down in front of his easel,
annoyed at this blantant intrusion into his life again. The envelope was
addressed "To Whom It May Concern". How mundane can you get ?
He tore it open and found a short note.
"Whatever you're doing up there stop it. Do you hear me ? STOP IT !"
"STOP IT! STOP IT !