The sound of a light bulb pulled by a chain. SCKERICKPT. Replacing the light of the moon, without a cloud in the sky, the sun shines bright overhead. It’s high noon. A dull ticking and tocking of a clock ticks and tocks overhead. Directly under the fat face of the sun sits a stately country home, dilapidated, barely standing. An old colonial, as it were, the thing looks as if it ought to be torn down. Despite its condition, the house stands tall, adorned with shutters and wrap-around porches, and to its right, if the front door is the “front” of the house were it to open its eyes and look out, rests a lively garden fluttering and singing with all sorts of tiny creatures and tiny plants. Beyond the garden sits a greenhouse teeming with self-sustaining life.
Dusty, a dirt road leads to and away from the house through a circular drive accessible on the left side of the house, again, if the front door is the vantage point from which the house would view the world. As if lassoed by the gravel tirepath, a large tuft of lush green grass rises high around the base of an old, thick, perfect-for-climbing tree. Shaded, the tree grows tall and wide, rounded, covering the grass-laden area below. Surrounding the home sway fields of tall green grass, patted down in various places by random things, and beyond the waves of grass sits a large forest that spans the entirety of the property not already described.
Of significant size, no one can ever really know how large the Listmaker’s Ranch truly is, especially since the only person who could know the answer is the Listmaker, himself, except that he never leaves his house. With regards to the entrance to the property, it is said that no one knows where it is. Tales of the Listmaker always begin upon the dirt and/or gravel path whereupon the visitor may see the house in the distance. These rumors tell of The Bromides, supposed travelers of time and space, and their special ability to commune with the Listmaker.
via WRTGPRAC’s Daily Writing Prompt No. 032