Still Life with Fences

(This was written to a photo prompt with a meadow with fences in the entire field of vision.)

I don’t know who I am, or where I am.  Nothing in this big house gives any indication of my identity.  Do I own this place? Were there other people here?  There is no one else here now.  There is plenty of food, and I know how to cook. I wish there was a dog or a cat at the least, for company.  There is evidence that there was a dog in the house – dog food in the pantry, a bowl set out for food, and one of those fountain water dishes that consistently cycles clean water for a dog. The bowl is empty, the water fountain dish still recycling water for an animal that is no longer here. Since the snow melted, I have searched the house, the barn, the garage, and the workshop – no signs of recent activity by man or beast.  I have explored this land by foot for three hours in each direction – only to find fences. There are fences everywhere.  They are simple split rail fences, easy to scale, if only they were not electrified. I have searched high and low for the switch that controls the electricity for the fences. I have not found it yet.  I look every day, hoping that I will see something that indicates the location of the equipment room.

It takes very little effort to clean up after myself. There is no work in the barn since there are no animals. There are cars in the garage, rusted and still. I don’t understand why I am here and alone with a seemingly endless supply of food. There are bookshelves overflowing with books that appear to have been well used. I have examined each one, hoping to find a name inside the cover, to no avail. I wish I knew my name.  I have taken to calling myself “Jo” after my favorite character in the book I am now reading. The house has electricity, and indoor plumbing, and clean, hot and cold running water, which argues against some kind of electro-magnetic pulse.  There could have been a natural disaster but why did I wake up alone, in a very comfortable bed, dust and cobwebs in dominion over the floor, walls, and ceiling, with bedclothes that turned to dust as I touched them? I may never know. I love the fields, and the kitchen garden.  I have tried to grow some of the seed I found in the stillroom – the plants were sickly looking, and died well before the growing season was over. I never tried again. I seem destined to be the only being alive.  I have no idea why.  I spend much time in the meadow, reading, writing in this book, or playing the drum and flute I found in one of the bedrooms, packed away in a cedar lined chest, just as the clothes were. I miss having a purpose. I write because I must.  One thing I do know for certain – I hate fences.

©Cedar Wolfsinger (Michelle R. Owings-Christian), December 2014

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