Eight feet below the ground, I shovel
clay mud with a small gardening shovel and rock pic.
Water started to rise already.
I needed to go a bit deeper to insert the pipeline, but there
was a stubborn hunk of clay buried deep inside the inner wall
that wouldn't come out.
After my gardening shovel broke I started tearing away at the
hard clay with my fingers, and I broke off several fingernails.
My hands bled and bled and bled all over the clay mud, which would
pollute the well-water for a good two weeks, causing a sulfur taste.
But I tore the clay out.
My well was done.

The four wall frames of the house were up but not fleshed out.
I had torn down every good usable tree around the area for lumber,
which still wasn't enough completely.
I was down on my cut up hands and feet, hammering and nailing,
hammering and nailing, hammering and nailing plywood and lumber
to hardened forest dirt that had been hollowed out into a 20X20 crawl
space for a small basement.
After the floor was done, I climbed my ladder to level up the remaining
frames for the roof but I lost my footing.
I fell off the ladder, through the floor and into the crawlspace.
My ankle snapped and the bone stuck though the skin.
Out the corner of my eye, stuck in the mud, I saw a bag strap.
I inched towards it and pulled out a Jordache backpack.
Inside the bag were notebooks full of Algebra problems, pre-teen literature,
love letters to a girl named Sam and a few empty energy drink cans.
I crawled out of the hole with the backpack and pulled myself towards the lake.
I washed myself off, snapped the bone back into the skin, wrapped my ankle in
duct-tape and finished the rest of the house on hops and skips.

I stood on the porch I had built which looked directly out over the lake.
The few possessions I owned were packed up in boxes:
A toaster, a typewriter, two pairs of boots, four shirts, two pairs of jeans, a dreamcatcher, a few pots and pans, a small in-table, a small lamp, a coffee mug that says, "New Mommy!", a letter opener, a sewing machine,
my cell phone, and a few records.
The doctor said I'd walk with a limp for the rest of my life for not having my ankle
looked at immediately.
There were far worse things than being a gimp.
The phone rang.
"This is Nebraska Crane."
"You're a hard man to get ahold of. You still meeting us in Egypt, Kentucky tomorrow?"
"Then we're set."
"But know that we didn't come to this land. We congened in the rivers and we walked out onto it. We raised crops, made love and lived a docile existence."
"Um, ok. See you tomorrow."
I hung the phone up, threw it into the lake and screamed and screamed and screamed.
The wooden beams rattled with every moan.
My fingers started to bleed again, so i washed them in the lake, put on gloves and walked into the woods to admire my new house from the highest hilltop.
Poor advice.
Last edited by stellar_legs at Feb 24, 2008,
Loved it.

I started to get a bit bored around the start of the second stanza. I guess building really isn't something that appeals to me and that could hold significance, but I don't know. The start of the second stanza just seemed to lack your creative flair I suppose.

The final stanza was fantastic though.

"I hung the phone up, threw it into the lake and screamed and screamed and screamed".

great stuff as usual.
Thank you.

I tried to do something about a very bland subject and keep it captivating.

There's an underlying theme in the last stanza....
Poor advice.
I just read the last stanza as the man tearing himself apart but trying to keep his sanity, kind of holding on to life or something by keeping himself busy, y'know. I don't like reading into things too much sometimes and if it works for me how I read it then I've no burning desire to see any greater meaning. I can't really see what the underlying theme is (although I'm probably not reading into it enough), but I'm interested to know.

You succeeded in keeping it entirely captivating, I read it out of want rather than just being nice, as usual with your pieces.

I didn't really give anything helpful, so there's no need to leave comments, but if you could just have a read over "Touch" part 1 (https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=794886) and part 2 (https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=794886) I'd be grateful.
Thank you.

This is the last piece I'm writing about Nebraska Crane, my alter ego and sometimes secondary seperate character.

So more comments would be nice.
This is the death of a national hero, people.
Poor advice.
This was very touching. Easy to access and lovely to read.

I just love reading this. It almost has a sense of hope to it but not an overly obvious one and I liked that. Ending was a nice touch.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Thank you.

I'm really proud of the directness.

It's a new approach for me - Taking influence from early Western American literature.
Poor advice.