Ben McCullough's Story

Riding down the highway in his old, beat up '50 Ford, Ben McCullough drove in fear. He had no idea of what to do. He knew that they were starting demolition today: that his life would forever change. Ben has never been without home or shelter in all his life. Everything has always been there for him; the small ranch, the house, even all the animals. He had no idea of what to do, much less how to do it.

The ancient pick-up caught a pothole, kicking up dirt and gravel. This new highway would run straight through his land. They started on the first half before land possession was even finalized. Ben didn't get it. He paid all his bills, followed social order: why did they have to take his land away? He didn't do anything wrong.

That road lasted for about ten minutes before he saw the outskirts of his property. The end of the road came near where they've got yellow tape and markers to signal where he needed to stop. Ben swept his truck to the skirt of the road and stepped out. He mopped his the slick sheen of sweat from his brow and looked towards his life. Big yellow monsters were chewing up the old goat house toward the back. His home was being leveled to the ground. Never in his life had the color yellow look so nasty, so mean, so destructive. The walk back to the truck was unbearable. He wanted nothing more than to run back to where he lived, to stop the people from taking it away from him, but he didn't. Ben knew when he was beat.

When Ben reached his old Ford and creaked the front door open, he reached in and took out his worn leather viola case. Taking that with him, he popped the tailgate open and set down the instrument. The familiar musty scent of the rosin reached his nose as he slowly lifted the cover of the case. This was the only thing that was truly his now, this tattered instrument. Ben lifted his viola up to his chin, raising his bow hand and started to play.

A haunting, sad melody sang as he played for the seasons lost, the seasons that his home would never see.