1928
Corners of the property: pile of brick-shaped rocks; nearly branchless weeping willow; collapsed cabin; bog of mealy ground. Land is of a slight grade. Rainwater collects in the northwest section and in the bog; dissipation is swift. A belt of forest splits the property. No longer a working farm. Emersons have always owned the property. A dirt and rock road leads from the farm to the northern stretch of state road. Three babies have been born on the property. Two men have died, the second of which is the subject of the disagreement.
1929
Tom loved the four creeks, especially the McMaster creek, so named because the creek began on the McMaster property. Only one McMaster remained and he was old and did little besides walk along that creek, hands in his pockets, face craned upward. Emerson walked the creek barefoot. The water was always colder than the air. He enjoyed the feeling of bare skin on rocks and dirt and the occasional dead brown trout. Why do we always cover our skin, he wondered. After a shower he would close his bedroom door and stand naked. One night he trolled the creek with a cup, filling and drinking, tasting the cold. That night he vomited for hours, the gurgle of his throat reaching the ceiling. His dry heaves continued through the next morning. Emerson scolded McMaster across the creek. Neither dared cross the water. Emerson said it was his creek so McMaster had no business tainting it. It was alleged that McMaster shit in the creek because he liked the feeling of water running across his bottom. So Emerson scolded until his throat scalded. He coughed and pointed a finger. It’s not your creek to shit in, Emerson said. It’s mine. McMaster disagreed.
1930
He was found in the McMaster creek at dusk. The current swirled across his pale cheeks and drenched his jacket. His crotch rested upon a large rock, as did his knees. His feet suspended in the air. The Emerson’s boy had found him. The oldest one, Tom, the one prone to eating grass and berries, putting fingers down his pants, and sleeping on the hardwood floor. Tom toed the man with his boot before stepping into the creek next to him. One of the man’s arms twisted beneath his stomach; the other stretched to his right, the current pricking his fingers. Tom turned the man over and his back met the water with a splash. His face was odd, like he had died in the middle of a yawn. Stubble pockmarked his cheeks like patchwork. His drenched face glowed. His left eye was shut, almost welded. His right eye was open a pinch, and when Tom bent down he could see the white of the eye between the lids. Tom bunched the collar of McMaster’s jacket in his hands and dragged him from the creek. The current’s speed immediately increased after his departure.
Nicholas Ripatrazone is the author of Oblations (Gold Wake Press 2011), a book of prose poems. His recent work has appeared in Esquire, The Kenyon Review, West Branch, The Mississippi Review, and Beloit Fiction Journal.