. . . soil, rotting in the bin I had made for all things organic but had started to smell. Bad. Really bad. Over the fence into the bottom the hill behind the house. Three weeks later, we had a ladder that cascaded up toward the top of the hill, then disappeared into some small fog, that didn’t smell good either.
In fact, it smelled as if a dead opossum had stepped in some day-old horse manure, then keeled over a pressed duck, left behind by a band of gypsies. {why are Gypsies always come in bands? A band of what? Rubber bands, bandages?] Needs more work, here!
I wish I could say that it was an easy JUMP up on the first rung, then magically being lifted to then top rung, but that was not the way it went at all. Not at all. Before I started up, I thought I needed supplies. Lunch. Water. Candy for whatever was waiting up at the top.
If there were a top.
to be continued
outsidethbox 