Cyrill decided to write down what he was thinking about. He had tried to write before, but he had never finished a story. Draw, that was what he could do, and do well. But the things he wanted to translate into art weren�t the things he wanted to draw. He liked the feeling he got from reading Faulkner and Mark Twain; he could intone the vernacular, recognize the characters.
There wasn�t anything special about the orchard. He didn�t necessarily like pecans, the trees at this time of the day in early January weren�t pretty, and the wind wasn�t in favorable proportion to the warmth of his clothes. The real attraction, besides the mud up the sides of his boots and pant legs, was the absence of people and structure. �Not of all structure,� he interjected, resting his hand on the sandy texture of one of the pecan trees. He wondered briefly if there would be power lines from branch to branch if he looked up, but out of a half-fear that there actually would be, he decided not to look up at all.
The people in the house all were family. Nobody throughout the world had closer blood with him than they did. They were no closer than old acquaintances though, and time with them was spent wondering whom, if anyone, they were in their quiet moments, and when they would leave. The wind began to press his shirt, moistened at the
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