The Shack Box

The first shack has a garage door sized guillotine blade on a roller track and a folding lever arm. The entire assembly lurches forward in its descent. The edge is well rounded, but at some points a rusty edge has separated from the corner. Inside the shack there is heavy box, with a heavy lid. The tar soaked boards are heavier than they look, and the metal band that frames has a blunt but an almost intentionally neglected longitudinal* bur that fades but returns as you run your finger along the underside edge. A sliver, perhaps because the millwright was a fool killer. After all it's all about how the tradesman inspects as he runs along the edge between mastery and foolishness. Behind the lid is a shelf that prevents the lid from being set safely back, that's the lazy way anyway. The message that resonates from the box can only travel through the stillness of the silence! of the dark town at night. A baby's arm lies in the muck in a drainpipe stream from some forgotten child's careless daydreams, unseen. The stream washes the muck from the arm as it strains like a lever arm against the flowing water like all the bygone generation's tears from lost daydreams.

*correct because it runs along the parallel axis that the band can be turned on.