Flood E-Book

alastair macleod

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

"She knew him vaguely. He lived up the valley on a small hill farm which he worked with his dad. Sheep mostly. “We’ve lost a few lambs in the wet,” he said, his voice warm and steady. Things had been that bad with prices recently he’d taken a job with the NFU as part time insurance agent.

Chris, like many single handed full time farmers didn’t have much time for socialising, so she hadn’t really had occasion to talk to him before.

He was a little taller than her, brown hair, a strong jaw line, hazel eyes and a friendly smile. He stood next to her in the line when they resumed the class. She was conscious of the dark fuzz on his strongly muscled forearm as he drew the bow. The instructor had called him Will, Will Hutton.

By the end of the night her drawstring fingers were sore and her arm ached a little.

Outside it was still teeming down. Everyone dashed for their cars and was off, including Will in his blue Toyota pickup.

Chris climbed into the Landrover. Even with wipers on at full it was difficult to see. Spray was being thrown up by small rivers of water running at intervals across the road. Huge puddles had collected on either side. She slowed down.

As she drove off the main road to the farm, she could see in the moonlight the river had come over into the lower meadow field. Nothing strange in that – it happened nearly every year, but it had spread a little further up than usual."

Leseprobe

Alastair Macleod

Flood

"to all those who experience flood" short story written following a flash flood, on the sixteenth august 2004 in Boscastle, Cornwall UK. first published in 2005 in a collection of short stories entitled "Strip of Light"BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

FLOOD

      With her right hand she pulled the string back to her cheek. Using the sights she took aim. The bowstring sung as the arrow took flight on its short arc to the target. She flexed her hand in its encasing leather half glove. The bowstring was so powerful that without the leather it would cut into your fingers. She had tried to gently exhale that time to reduce the slight shake that holding your breath brings as you fix on the target.

      She had strong hands. During the day she worked on a farm carrying pails, bags of feed, shifting bales. Her hands could be gentle too; feeding a calf, stroking a dog, washing an udder.

      She was 29, running the bottom of the valley farm single handed since dad had died. It was hard work, long hours – nothing she wasn’t used to.

       It had been raining for days, dull dreary days, and she’d realised she was getting cabin fever. So when she saw the advert for the archery class on Wednesday night, she turned up.

      The hall was brightly lit with huge tulip shaped down lights. “Wouldn’t like their electricity bills,” she thought, comparing the glare to the weak lights in her own outbuildings. A mixed bag of locals had stood around while the instructor gave fairly sparse instructions and kitted them all out.Lined up, arrows began pinging off in all directions, till the instructor told them all to stop. He’d take them one by one.