Reed Gold Mine

Photo by Jeffrey Arnold SwanWinter held it’s breath for two days last weekend.

I decided it was a good opportunity to venture out into the warm, golden rays. The only pigment that provided any color to my skin could have been found at my calloused fingertips.

Been clawing the walls with a boredom induced frenzy might you ask?

Nope.

I’ve been maintaining my self proclaimed sanity by allowing my thoughts to transcend through and out of my fingers. The resulting compilation of words and such is what I will call my attempt at writing.

But, like George Jetson, I too, can get punchy from punchin’ all those buttons.

Image

Photo by Jeffrey Arnold Swan

 

The temperature dropped a good 20 degrees when I walked alone into the mine shaft.

The 20 watt incandescent bulbs sporadically placed along the dim corridor, fueled imagination.

Relieved to see modern timbers supporting the earth above me, I walked slowly, allowing myself to travel back in time.

I could smell dampness in the air mixed with burning oil from the lanterns.reed 051

I heard first, the sound of steel smashing steel. Then, rock cracking, splitting and falling to the ground.

An empty ore cart whizzed past me as I jumped out of its way.

Muffled voices of Negro slaves began to emanate from the walls.

They spoke of the poor conditions and the open sores.

I saw the rock bolts that had been placed in the walls to stop the fissures, to stop the cracking, to stop the cave-ins I presumed.reed 054

A heavy set man in a dapper blue suit holding a lantern approached me.

He looked right through me, checked his shiny time piece, turned and walked away.

I continued on, stopping one more time to hear the rickety wheel of an ore cart being pushed by, without even seeing the whites of his eyes.

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About travelingchair

I simply want to share, my journey with the chair.
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