FIRST WRITING PRIZE WINNER –
WINTER 2020 – 2021
is PETER VANGELDEREN
of ROCHESTER HILLS, MICHIGAN, USA
The Man In the Rut
A young man returns home, clad from head to toe in black and mourning. His house stands tall; its bones still strong despite time’s perpetual beating. He approaches the plain, weathered front door. The splinters and chipped wood send a message of hostility, but he is immune. This old building had been his home since he first drew breath, and he knows every crack in the wall and rusted pipe that can be found within its walls. Now, he steps through the threshold for the first time as its master.
He lets out a grumbling sigh. Quickly he changes out of his stuffy, ill-fitting suit, leaving the outfit sprawled on his bed. In the kitchen, he begins to boil water. Like every cup of coffee he made, this one would undoubtedly carry the taste of the well the water came from. The flavor of iron and orange blotches on all the sinks are worth the solitude, though. He retrieves his skillet. Its original color is eclipsed by old stains but the metal is still good for cooking. He sees no need to replace it. Within a few minutes, he is listening to the snapping of cooking bacon and the increasing whistle of his kettle.
His breakfast is short. He’s burnt the meat as black as the coffee, and both are as bitter as his mood most days. Although mildly satisfied, he frowns. The basement is full of junk now, and he’s not one to leave such a project for later. He makes his way down, his boots drumming on the creaky and uneven stairs. The steps angle downward, yearning to become a flat slope. He would not replace them, though. He won’t spend good money on a problem easily solved with proper deftness.
The odor of mildew hangs in the air of the cellar like a cloud. The man scowls deeper as he feels around for the pull chain in the darkness. Once found, he pulls on the loose fixture, flashing the room with dim orange light. Various splotches of mold dot the floors and wall, centering around the cracks in the cold stone wall. Most of the cramped space is filled with old boxes, the cardboard in various states of rot. He turns up his nose at them, sighs, and begins his task.
For hours he searches, combing each box for anything of use. Rusted trinkets and tools he removes, setting them aside for some quick cash at the scrapyard. Most of the clothing he finds is stained and holey, but he can get some use from a few of the sweaters and jeans. In one box he finds a nest of wires, garnished with power bricks and various batteries covered in powdery acid. He would need hours of untangling and organizing to attempt to sell what metal might still be worth something. He has no patience for that. They will go into the trash with the rest. He isn’t going to drive to the recycling center unless there’s money waiting for him. What next, is he going to take his grocery cart all the way back to the return or tip someone for simply doing their job?
The sunset comes and goes while he carries on in the windowless cellar. He’s progressing, but he will be working into the night. At one point, he makes a tasteless sandwich of stale bread and cheap meat and cheese, holding it in his dirty hand while he continues his task. The kettle whistles several more times that night.
As he nears the ending of the final box, his eyes are bloodshot and sore. His fingers are raw and bear small cuts from searching through the seemingly endless supply of rubbish for sharp metal edges. He takes a sip from his fourth beer. The muddling effect of the drink had taken hold and had been allowing him to tolerate the last few hours. As the golden liquid slides down his throat, he hears a loud pop from the lightbulb, and his vision goes black.
He curses as his productive torpor vanishes. He hasn’t boxed up the metal yet, nor had he ferried his garbage outside. He kicks an empty box, sending it flying into the wall to clatter around the corner of the room. He’s probably going to have to repair the fixture; he doubts that he’ll be able to get the old bulb out and the new one in without the whole setup falling out of the ceiling. Perhaps he’d just leave it hanging. He’d be damned if he was going to hire some electrician who’d try to sell him on some extravagant and overly expensive fix in the name of “being up to code.”
He curses again and heads upstairs in the dark to find the flashlight he’d stolen from a neighbor a few years ago. Once found, he returns to the basement stairs, only to see not the void he was expecting, but a soft white glow coming from below. His hair stands on end, and he grabs the lead pipe he keeps near the front door before descending. With each step he takes, the light brightens. A sharp pain flares in his face and he squints in response, but he continues. Upon reaching the bottom and seeing the source of the mysterious incandescence, his aching eyes shoot open.
“I come with a message,” His mother says.
He stammers, “This… this isn’t possible. I saw them lower you into the ground!”
“Yet I am here.” Her form is dressed in pale white, and a thick fog swirled around her. Staring at him was the same face he remembered: scowling, wrinkled, and with eyes that could shoot fire.
He shakes his head, raising his chin at her. “I’ve drunk too much.”
“Quiet, boy!” she barks.
The familiar command snaps him to attention.
His mother’s face softens, something he’d only seen a few times before. “I’m back to tell a story and you must listen, for it is the most important thing you will ever hear and you will only hear it once.”
Shaken with fear, the man says nothing more.
With a satisfied nod, she begins, “Once, a man decided he’d had enough of the world. He brandished an old, corroding spade and traveled to a field, far from others. He dug himself a hole and laid down in it, declaring it his new home. At first, it was a mere furrow, barely a foot and a half into the soil, but it provided him the seclusion he so craved. No longer would he be pestered by a society he hated, pressured into spending his energy, time, and money in the name of handouts to those he considered pathetic and lazy. Here he was free.”
As the man’s mother speaks, the mist around her condenses to form shapes, changing hue and shade to add a visual component to the woman’s words. The nature of the fog provides a flowing water-color effect as if the characters are as spectral as the tale’s narrator.
“When the rains came, the man’s rut filled with muddy water. He cursed the sky for his inconvenience, and spitefully tore away nearby plants that benefited from the spring showers. Animals occasionally stopped by to slake their thirst at the new pond and he would scream and bash and swing his spade in anger at them, sending the terrified creatures away. They kept returning though, and the rains kept coming, so he dug himself deeper. Once finished, the forest beasts could no longer reach the water. The man still hated the rain, but he was happy to deprive them.”
“However, as time went on, a farmer bought the land and began to cultivate it. The new landowner intended to grow a bounty of crops to be delivered to those in need in the nearby cities. The man in the rut hated that farmer but delighted to know that good produce would be so near for him to steal while the farmer was away. He swiped as much as he could and brought it back to his hole, feasting on what was meant for the needy.”
“It did not take long for the landholder to identify the thief. At night, while the man in the rut slept, the farmer would retrieve his stolen vegetables. Sometimes, the man would defend his pilfered gains, but the rightful owner almost always managed to snatch back some of his yields. And so, the man dug deeper once again, until his treasures were out of the reach of the fast hands of the farmer.”
“Eventually, the landowner gave up and let the man have his prize, for he was already growing enough to feed more than he could supply. Years passed, and as they did, more folk started to settle around the farm, offering their hands and minds to the farmer in exchange for food. Soon, a small town had grown. The man in the rut was infuriated with each new face he saw. He growled at those who approached his groove like a bear guarding a fallen deer. When kind souls attempted to talk the stubborn man out of his burrow and invite him into their community, they were met with curses and rocks, for the man could not see the good things they had built over the walls of his rut. With the noise and prying eyes multiplying, the man decided to dig even deeper into the earth to escape them.”
“That village continued to expand until a sprawling city had bloomed. Progress had centered on what had once been a small, altruistic farm. Within the city center, the man in the rut still dwelled within his earthen lair. The smells and sounds of life were a constant bother to him, and with the influx of people, he could no longer get away with stealing their food or drink and was forced to survive on the worms and grubs of the soil. The man kept digging and digging downward, but the advancement of the city followed him. With each disturbance from the surface, he became more bitter and miserable.”
“He stayed his rancorous path until one day, upon moving his millionth handful of ancient dirt, he realized he no longer saw the sun when he gazed upward. His world had darkened to one of pure shadow. He ground his teeth and attempted to shift some of the earth to raise himself a few feet until he saw the sky again. However, his disgruntled shuffling disturbed the tall walls of his home. He did not realize his mistake until the ground began to rain down around him. As his burial began without his consent, he screamed for help. Unfortunately, in silencing the outside world, he had silenced himself. None could hear his cries, and they ceased shortly after as the man’s mouth filled with wet earth.”
The wispy pictures fade, and the basement returns to the dim white light of his mother’s ghost. The young man feels his heart pounding in his chest as he cautiously waits for his visitor’s next move. A few beads of cold sweat dribble down the back of his neck.
“And?” the man holds out his arms, “what was the point?”
“The point?!” The spirit lurches forward. Her eyes and the cloud flash to the color of blood as she bares her sharp and translucent teeth. “The point is to watch your own rut. Keep digging to escape the world, and one day too, your walls will collapse, just as mine did. I return to save you from that fate and make you learn, child. For if you stay on the path of your forebears, the walls you’ve spent your life building will become your grave.”
-30-
About the author:
Peter VanGelderen has made his home in Rochester Hills in his native state of Michigan, where he is surrounded by creative friends. During the day, he assists small business merchants with their credit card processing, but on nights and weekends, he is either writing or editing his fantasy novel or short stories. He uses his experience from studying psychology at Kalamazoo College to create characters who reflect both the healthy and toxic aspects of human behavior. When taking a break from writing, Peter spends his time absorbing stories from all forms of media to broaden his creative mind. Peter’s stories have been a part of two anthologies from Dragon Soul Press, first with “Wolves: in Reign of Queens,” and then again with “Below” in “Lethal Impact.” He is also going to be featured in DSP’s anthology “Spirit” with his short story, “Bear,” as well as in Eerie River Publishing’s “Dark Magic Drabbles” anthology.
