There lived a man with a wooden leg in his small wooden house. Everyday the man would wake up early in the morning, to observe how miserably cold it was, and to fall asleep again. He’d then wake up in the evening, distressed and hungry. He’d then reignite the hearth, drink some water, crush some leaves and indulge himself in a satisfying smoke.
That evening was almost similar. Almost.
The woods were beginning to get darker. The sun became helpless. Animals of ill repute came out of their dungeons. The birds could be heard flying for their life. To a lost traveler, the only sign of civilization would have been the smoke coming out of the small wooden house. To a lost traveler, the resident of the house would have turned out to be a huge disappointment. To a lost traveler the situation would have seemed utterly hopeless.
But she wasn’t lost. She perfectly knew her way.
She knew that a pistol would do for a lion. She had one. She knew a loud roar would scare away lesser beasts. She had one. She knew a bottle filled with gin was a necessity in frigid woods. She had one. She knew she’d need a place for the night. She didn’t have one.
She saw a small wooden house, puffing out substantial amounts of smoke. She went there, destroying on her way the lush overgrowth. She circumscribed the house for an entrance but couldn’t find one. She smelt something apart from burning logs. She knew someone was smoking inside. Smoking something green and good. She looked at the window curiously carved at a slightly higher place. She placed a big, wide log beneath the window and mounted on it. She could now finally see inside the house. She saw a nose, very close to hers.
This is the first chapter of the story “The Wooden Leg.” The next parts I’ll post as soon as they get written!