The Optimistic Choice

“My mother always told me to look on the bright side.”

He was thinking, as his feet trudged through sheep shit and rain waters along the high-grass hills. The weather in Scotland is known to be bipolar, but he didn’t believe everything he read. A baaing sheep scurried by as his soaked shoes splashed shit-mud onto his pants.

“At least my breath won’t be the shittiest smell on me.”

The climb, or rather walk, had been slow and steady. He’d lifted one leg, then the other, and he’d made his way to an abandoned farmhouse on a hilltop. The peeling paint and rotting rock shingles gave it an air of seniority most trees only dream of. The rusted carcasses of farm equipment lay scattered on the outskirts of the rock fenced enclosure of the property. Moss grew with mildew and gave the property that distinct air of terror one often feels when a car almost hits you.

“Hello.” He yelled into the cobwebbed window while his dusty reflection peered, trying to find something in the dark of the house’s heart.

“Abandoned, guess I’ll go in.”

His thoughts raced. He pushed the rusting obelisk of a door handle and stepped through the once red, now mostly grey, wooden door. The flashlight from his telephone caught the specs of what might have been asbestos dust, the mites flew around and settled on broken furniture. His boots stamped shit prints across the nailed floorboards, his weight creaking and echoing with each new step. Stacks of dirty dishes bred maggots, who bread flies, who bred amphibians, who bred rodents, who died and bred other maggots. Inside their ecosystem he felt out of place.

“At least it doesn’t stink as bad as rotting deer.”

He thought himself strong as he cover his nose with his sleeve and walked further into the house. The basement door was non-existent, so he went up the stairs. The bloated floorboards bounced under his weight.

“Fuck!” His foot broke through the thirteenth step and his boot was cut open.

A dry voice yelled, “who’s there?”

A wide eyed, white beared, half handed man rushed to the stair case. His underlit features from the flashlight caused Bret (yes, that’s his name) to fall back first to the first floor. The hook armed stranger rushed down the steps, his heavy boots echoing and speeding up till he nearly leapt onto poor Bret.

He stood above, yellow teeth grinning. “Sorry lad, I didn’t mean to startle ya. Need a hand?”