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Weekly Contest #130
The air was cool and calm at the first light of dawn, but the blameless empty skies spoke of the oppressive heat that was to come. Scott Moss was standing in the doorway of his shearing shed. Dust was dancing in the weak light, and he surveyed the scene with watery, red eyes. There had been no shearing for two years now. Dank, rotting wool gathered in the corners and around the chutes of the once pristine shed. Floorboards, polished to a burned amber by a thousand footfalls, both man and animal, now wore a thick coat of grease. Mouse dropp...
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