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The fires of spring


En historie med rivalisering mellom to nabogårder.

Sjanger:NovelleLastet opp:19.11.2007
Språkform:EngelskForfatter:Anonym
Tema:Drap
Verktøy:Utskrift   Del på Facebook


Bill Jenkins hadn’t done much out of his life - had just lived in the shadow of his father. Waiting till he died so he could inherit the farm, but now he was filled with anger. He wanted to have revenge on George some day. The spring was growing and a long winter was over.

 

“Bill my son, one day you will own this land.”  Bill stood in the field, thinking of his father. Joe came running - his parents died in a car accident when he was two years old. Bill was his uncle, so he took care of him. Now he was 9 years old and kind of took care of himself. Bill and Joe lived out in the wilderness - on the farm that Bill had inherited after his father.

 

George Taylor was living on the neighbor farm - 3-4 km away. He was an old vulture, who had been fighting with the Jenkins as long as the brain possibly can remember. But the bad relationship reached the top when Jenkins built a warehouse where George was going to build a mill - George had no other place to build his mill. He got so furious that he took a shotgun and shot old Jenkins when he was out ploughing a potato field. Bill saw the incident, but the police couldn’t find evidence against Taylor.

 

It was a sunny day; no clouds on the sky, Bill had just drunk a cup of coffee and were going out to chop wood. Joe was going out to a water to fish. “Don’t be late, and don’t go over to George”, Bill reminded him. George was out driving tractor; Bill saw his grumpy face, before he walked into the wood room.

 

Joe had no bite. He was a patient boy. The water was only a 5 minutes walk from the farm. Joe heard a stick break behind him. He turned 180o in the same moment.

 

“So here you are” George had a deep voice, from years of smoking. He stood with a knife, smiling, with his eyes wide opened. He tried to cut Joe, but he slipped because of some pebbles. He fell down in the water. The old greybeard couldn’t swim. He acted like a child down in the water. Joe ran without even picking up his fishing rod.

 

Joe slammed the door as he entered the front door, “George is dead.” “What do you say?” Bill frowned. “I tell you...”

 

THE END


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