The Shack

It's been a while since I've posted any fiction. The Shack is a short flash from one of those 24 Hour Contests. There is a prompt followed by a word count and 24 hours to get it done and submitted. I never win, but it is a GREAT writing exercise. Hope you enjoy this one. 

📷credit: rarestohanean

The Shack

He coughed. It had happened fast. One day my dad was fine. A few weeks later, he was gray and ashen and coughing up a lung. 

I blamed it on the stress of running this damn farm. People came from miles around to admire and purchase his harvests from the shack by the road. 

The blueberries were the size of apples, and the apples were the size of pumpkins. The pumpkins set their own records, and the enormous pecans pulled on the 150-foot tree in the meadow. 

“Come ‘er, Missy.” He said, reaching out his gnarled index finger.

I inched closer. 

“I have to tell you the secret. To the farm,” he said. His frail body shook with labored raspy breath.

“Hush, Dad, I’ll figure it out,” I said, not wanting to know any of the details about the farm. I wasn’t going to run it. Walmart had already offered me a handsome sum, enough to keep me living comfortably far away from this two-bunk town. I’d never have to work four jobs to put food on the table again. 

“Miss…I tried to make it, but you have to keep it going…every spring…one hundred baby…” And that was what he said with his last breath.

“What?!?” I shouted to no one. “What was that?!?”

The house shook, and the wind picked up. A funnel cloud appeared, barreling straight for me. I looked at my dad, lifeless on the bed. I couldn’t leave him, but I couldn’t run either. I was rooted. I closed my eyes and braced, but the tornado shrunk and slipped through the open window.

As the wind died, a tall menacing woman and a small official-looking man stood before me.

“Hello, my name is Sherman, and this is Esmeralda. We’re sorry for your loss, but we must disturb you in your time of grief. The proprietor,” Sherman looked to my dad, “died without passing the deal on to the heir.” He met my gaze and held out his clipboard. 

“Huh?” was all I could utter. 

“Your father passed before you could accept the offer to maintain the farm,” Sherman said.

“What does that mean?” I asked, unable to fathom what was happening as my dreams of Walmart riches slipped away. 

Esmeralda looked down her pointed nose at me, “You are the only heir to the farm?”

“Um,” I said. In the regular world, under normal circumstances, I was fairly good with words. “I’m his only child,” I looked over at my poor dead father, who had coughed his last breath only moments ago.

“Did he not tell you about our agreement?” Esmeralda asked.

“No,” I gulped. “I think he was about to, something about a baby.”

“Ah yes, the babies. I hope he has acquired them for this payment. It’s due tomorrow,” said Esmeralda.

Sherman's face squinted into worry, “I hope he ordered the babies.”

“Babies?” I gulped.

“Yes, 100 of them. Every spring,” Esmeralda said.

My knees buckled, and I leaned on a nearby desk. Babies for profit. How could my dad do this? What kind of man was he? I was going to be sick. I didn’t have 100 babies; even if I did, I wouldn’t hand them to these two.

Sherman smiled, “Can we answer any questions?”

“Yeah, what did the babies buy?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“A refugee portal,” Esmeralda said.

“Of course,” I laughed out loud, “And just what sort of refugees are we ushering through this portal, which is where?”

“Under the roadside shack, there’s a natural portal where displaced magical creatures can enter from the Nether Realm to seek asylum. Our land is at war.”

“My dad paid you in babies for a magic portal? Not the ridiculously huge harvests?”

“That’s the major perk of housing a portal,” Esmeralda said. “Magical beings help things grow.”

“Obviously,” I said. 

“Can we count on you?” asked Sherman.

“I don’t have 100 babies, and if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you!” I shouted as full-blown hysteria took over. 

A honk came from outside as a truck pulled up. We all looked out the window.

“Ah,” Esmeralda said, “Looks like the payment has arrived.”

The truck was loaded with baby chicks. Probably close to a hundred of them. I laughed, “My dad didn’t pay you in real babies?”

Their eyes shot wide, “Heavens, no! We’re not monsters!” 

“Since you’re paid up for the year…” Sherman raised an eyebrow.

“Sure, why not,” I said. At this point, I just wanted them gone. I wanted to be alone with my dad. And process whatever the hell was happening.

“Excellent,” Sherman clapped and presented his clipboard, “Just sign here.”

I did and then gulped, “What do you do with the chicks?”

“We raise them and sell the eggs to Walmart. They pay a fortune,” Esmeralda smiled. With a snap of her fingers, she and her cohort disappeared.

I sighed and sank onto the bed beside my dad, “I’ll take care of the farm, Dad. Rest in peace.”

The End

As always, thank you for stopping by. I’d love to hear your comments below. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️