Free Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) by Rebecca Patrick-Howard Page B

it wasn’t difficult to see their colors and textures. They still shimmered, even in the dense fog and strained light of the early morning mist. Where some people might have seen dark grays and somber tones, she saw jewels and coppers. Each stone had its own personality and she painted each one so that it told its story through her brush.  It was a shame, really, that the wing had collapsed, but it had done so in such a beautiful jumbled mess. She was considering doing an entirely separate painting of it just because it had landed so deliciously intricately, almost like a sculpture or Roman ruins. There were people who lived in mansions who would pay to have such structures intentionally built in front of their houses today in their gardens. She hoped someone would make use of the stones and come and cart them away and they wouldn’t end up in the landfill. Since Reagan was a contractor, she figured he would do something with them or at the very least donate them to the Habitat for Humanity Restore. Most of them were still in very good condition and probably of some historical value.
    After several hours of what she thought was pretty good work on her part, she stepped back and admired her own work, gave herself a pat on the back, and took a break. “Well done , old girl,” she said aloud and then literally gave herself a pat on the back because, after all, she believed if you didn’t do it, then nobody else would.
    The sun had come out by then and the ground was starting to dry , but it was still very muddy so she headed to the car and sat on the hood while she ate her lunch—leftover Subway from the night before.
    Re agan had taken the boards off the windows like she had asked, and now that the sun had risen in the sky it caught the upstairs window and the glare made it appear to wink at her. In fact, it seemed to look right at her. Shielding her eyes, she turned away. “Damn it,” she muttered, as she looked at the ground and took another bite. The glare was so bright, however; she couldn’t ignore it.
    She had grown used to the uneasy feeling she’d developed on the first day and thought she might be making friends with the house. It didn’t feel as unwelcoming to her as it did in the beginning and she was almost certain it had even preened a little today while she was painting it, as though it knew it was posing for something that would make it immortal.
    Taryn was not a religious person , and wasn’t even sure she believed in God, or one powerful entity at all, but she did believe in energy and nature and if there was something bigger than herself in the universe, she always felt it outside when she was alone. She never found it inside the walls of a church or listening to someone preach. Sometimes, while she was painting, she’d get so lost in thought and deep into her picture that she even thought she might becoming a part of it, or with the world around her. It was the closest thing she’d ever had to a religious experience and the feeling of euphoria it gave her was similar to the one she’d gotten off some pain pills when she’d had her wisdom teeth removed.
    All of a sudden , a loud crash from inside the house sang out and caused her to jump off the hood and drop her sandwich to the ground. “So much for the five-second rule,” she cursed as she watched it immediately get covered with mud and ants. She was hungry, but not that hungry.
    Still, she was curious about the noise. She didn’t think anyone was in the house and it had been a couple of days since she’d been inside. “Eh, why not?” she mumbled, and made her way to the front door. “What’s it going to do?”
    Always taken a little aback by the amount of darkness that existed even with the windows uncovered, it took her a moment to adjust her eyes when she stepped inside. The living room was cleared of any items and was stark and empty. Taryn thought this made it feel less intimidating than before, as though the boxes had made it