The Storm Pit… (An excerpt from a story in progress)

The Storm Pit…

Daddy dug a big hole in the side of the hill that edged the land near our tiny clapboard house.  With shovel and pick in those big calloused hands he worked all day at the crimson clay dirt, I played while he labored making me a safe place to hide from the evil of the tornado’s that claimed domination over our valley. I ask why he was working so hard, I wanted to go fishing. “The Spring House is not safe”! He kept digging. The day over, the promised fishing trip complete and months passed when daddy looked at the sky and told me to get a jar of water and come with him to the storm pit. I entered the dark hole in the hill, daddy lit a lamp.   Roots ripe as old bait dangled from the ceiling covered by old mildewed crates. Their wicked necks looked like snakes. It stank, leaf mold and slippery planks. Even the dirt kept breathing small claustrophobic breaths.  I never entered the “pit” again, I would take my chances with a tornado!

2014©annjohnsonmurphree

http://www.amazon.com/Honeysuckle-Memories-Ann-Johnson-murphree/dp/150029070X/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405934856&sr=1-3&keywords=ann+johnson-murphree

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