The Well

Masons break down boulders, lumberjacks pull down trees, he rests while they pollute his sleep with chaos of crash and creak. Boulders broken to bricks, wood chopped to poles, construction begins on a fine summer’s day. His dark, thorny hair nestled in odd shapes, his bones aching as he rises from bed and gazes out the window of his humble mill.

His view is filled with the joy of hundreds of young children and parents finally relaxing mid-year. His gente, blue eyes adjust to the rays of sunlight revealing crashing waves pushing seaweed onto shore, smoothing sand hiding footprints. Sweet scents of freshly baked bread downstairs call him loudly to eat, but louder still is the thump of rock after rock.

Tumbling down the stairs he remembers the well – so useless being a five minute walk from the sea, yet a nice addition to his abode. Warm, creamy butter finds its way onto nice, cut slices of bread, soon to be met by jam or jelly. A counteract to the dropping of stones opens his ears: footsteps on old, creaky floorboards and a knock on his front door.

“It’s done, you’ll need a bucket and some rope but it’s done.” Met by a smile and of course a little cash, the workers passed the well they finally built and left it ready for examination. Forty feet deep and only a little wide he dropped a pebble and waited for the splash – a satisfying droplet sound sang to his ears. He tried another, and one more, then three at once. Drop, drop…

Drop? The absence of another sound sent a chill down his spine. He waited for even the slightest, most hush presence of a droplet but was met by a blinding ring of roar. The newly cemented stone bricks cracked and the wood of the roof broke in two. The shape of seaweed and void darkness of night rose up through the well to meet him. Though he begged for the sound of that final drop, he would never hear another sound again.

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