[The following is more rambling description and narrative than actual story. It is entirely experimental. If you're wondering what happens, so am I.]

As the imminent storm covered the prairie with a blanket of darkness, old Jessepee, the family mule, fidgeted nervously. It wasn’t her first storm by any stretch of the imagination, but each one scared her as much as the first. She continued to whinny and stamp the ground as the distant lightning painted the sky haphazardly. The roll of distant thunder played like a soundtrack for the forthcoming tragedy.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Aimee and her sister Mabel were arguing over dinner plans for the following evening. “If you suggest biscuits one more time, I may kill you” continued Mabel, “You know how I love rolls!”“I don’t care if you do kill me…I’m not eating your rolls. If you want to know the truth…” she paused, choosing her words carefully for full effect, “I’ve never liked anything you’ve ever made. You are quite possibly the worst cook in the world.”Mabel fled from the room, tears streaming down her face.

In the back of the house, Jacob was drawing a bath. As the water poured from the rusty pipes into the large claw foot tub, it drowned out the sounds of the looming storm and the adjacent quarrel. He rubbed the discomfort in his chest, unable to see the struggle beneath the surface. The struggle that had kept him alive all these years, but would soon be ended as quickly as it had begun 75 years ago. His arms shaking beneath his weight, he lowered himself into the steaming water and breathed a sigh. The kind of sigh one can’t truly understand before the age of 70.

As Mabel sobbed in the kitchen, Aimee paced the hall. She knew she would have to apologize, but she was tired of pretending that everything was ok. The crying in the kitchen had stopped now. She paused, reluctant to move or give away her presence. As she stood with her back to the wall, she spied her reflection in the mirror at the end of the hall. Looking into her own eyes, she saw pain. Pain, self-inflicted and untreated.  Tears welling, she began to pity Mabel, and herself.  Her feelings seemed to dance unpredictably between sorrow and anger.  Her pride stood like a shadowy figure between her and reconcilliation with her sister. She glared into the mirror again with self-loathing.

Just on the other side of this shadowy figure sat Mabel.  She leaned into the space between the refrigerator and wall, nursing a cup of water.  Occasional tears seeped from her eyes clinging to her red, swollen cheeks, not unlike the rain which had begun to fall against the glass door leading to the pasture.  She sighed heavily.  Her lungs seemed to cling to each breath, releasing it with the unmistakable sound of sorrow.

The wind began to blow across the pasture to the barn housing miserable Jesseppe.  The barn, born before Jacob, Aimee, or Mabel was badly in need of repair.  The steadily increasing rain fell through the nearly useless roof soaking her brown coat.  Shivering, she continued to pace in the dark, trying to find shelter.

In the back of the house, Jacob continued to soak. The water was much cooler now and his skin was wrinkled and pruny from the excess hydration. He looked at the towel folded neatly a few feet away on the wicker chair.  It might as well have been miles.  His hand rested lazily on the side of the giant tub, spilling water onto the wooden slats below.  The aging porcelain was chipped and frayed, revealing the cast iron surface below.  Were it not for the steady drip from the leaky faucet, he might have sworn time had stopped.