George was ecstatic over having become the county’s newest portable building dealer, running a sales lot north of town with chicken coops, outhouses, and storage sheds. Sales were brisk. In the second month alone, he had sold two of the manufactured wooden structures nearly back to back, both of them to himself. From this came the peculiar presence of Leslie at the Farm, a woman that came and went in relative silence – and one who completed the trifecta of strange women occupying George’s three cabins for some time.
“What am I seeing?” said Eva one day, out of the blue. She and Nigel were walking down the private dirt trail from their cabin and stopped dead in their tracks. She wondered if she saw things that couldn’t possibly be there, sort of like the aboriginal Australian reaction to British ships porting in the 1700s. It can’t be real, so it doesn’t exist.
A woman was before them unloading items from her car into what appeared to be a small garden shed set just off the road near the bottom of the hill. She was tossing clothing onto the branches of trees, and it looked like she was moving in. Eva wasn’t as perplexed over the woman as she was of the new dwelling.
Just the week before, Eva and George had discussed her vision of expanding the Farm’s garden area, but now there was a chicken coop smack dab in the middle of it. If he had put chickens in it, that might have been okay because she could have worked around it, but he’d converted it into a rental unit after hearing about the popularity of the tiny house movement, and now some guy was smoking a bowl out on the front porch roost every afternoon. She was still grumbling over the whole deal.
Copyright © 2019 J.J. West. Fiddlesticks! Tales From A Country Ghetto.
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