Homesteader 3

Homesteader 3:

“Good morning, Brandon.”

Ugh.

“Good morning, Linda.”

“I thought I would see you last night but I see you decided to stay in.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling so hot.”

“Drinking this stuff wont help. Why can’t you just take an orange like everyone else? I guess you think that this makes you eccentric. Well, everyone has noticed and we are all very impressed.”

“Nobody asked you to come over this morning.”

“No. Your right. I think some of your self-hating impulses are polluting me.”

Silently Brandon agreed. Linda was being reasonable and he was being miserable. As he sat up from the chaise lounge he knocked over a bottle and a glass. Some unidentifiable crumbs tumbled off his undershirt. Linda went to the kitchen.

“Murray said he wants to play racquet ball again,” Linda sang as the water ran.

“That’s only because I don’t give a damn and I’m the only person he might beat.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Brandon smirked to himself and jogged into the kitchen.
“Hey, I’ve got something to show you.” He said, grabbing her about the waist.

“What?”

“You have to come down to the basement to see it.”

Holding her hand, Brandon lead her down the hallway. They reached the bottom of the basement steps before he turned on the light. Linda was visibly disturbed by what lay before her. The dank basement was filled with folding tables. Each table was strewn with wood and tools, old tools. Like people used to use. She didn’t know what they were called but there were clamps and vices and handsaws and bits and various cold, vicious objects with malicious-looking angles. Linda simultaneously imagined the bloody accidents of careless ancient craftsmen and the cruel experiments which might be occupying Brandon’s time. She covered her stomach and nervously asked, “What’s all this?”

“Oh just a hobby, but I have done something which I find quit remarkable.”
Brandon's eyes glimmered as he excitedly strode to one of the tables where there lay some strips of wood and jars and buckets and brushes and carving tools. He turned the handle on a vice holding a piece of wood about four feet long.
“It’s a bow.”

“A what?”

“A bow, like people used to use to hunt animals to eat.”

“How does it work?” Linda asked touching it with her fingertips.

“You glue a bunch of narrow strips of wood together and shape it to the shape you want and it is much stronger than a regular piece of wood. Then you attach the string.” Then, holding one end of the bow against the floor, Brandon hooked the end of a slim, braided, steel cable around the top of the wood. “I couldn’t use natural glue or sinew but the principles are the same.” He then strung an arrow from the below the table.

“Watch the bag on the wall, and stand behind me,” Brandon continued. The bag was about thirty feet away, next to a pile of old cookware. Linda folded her arms and complied. Brandon drew the bow, exhaled slowly, and loosed the arrow. A hissing noise. A mind splitting crack exploded in the basement. The bag burst off the wall and splinters and chunks of sheetrock flew across the room. Linda screamed and ducked. Brandon grinned at the wall obscenely. Uncovering her ears, Linda stood, and marched up the steps.

“Did you see that!?” Brandon cried.