The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

  Thurston’s feelings of unease when he saw the well were a recent development. For the better part of the last 10 years he’d lived on this property, he’d taken Stanley - his brussels-griffon - on nightly walks through the sizable forest that bordered his home. For the better part of the last 10 years, he’d passed the well, and never once had the rotund mustached man or his rotund mustached dog sensed any sort of negative aura or fear or any solitary ounce of ugliness from the abandoned thing. The sight typically gave Thurston a sort of comfort, if anything. The crumbling, mossy stone and weather-beaten wooden roof, even the rotted and frayed but still somehow in-tact rope and rusted bucket that once heaved up pails of water from the earth - it had all stood the test of time. It was a sort of symbol of things, Thurston had always thought. The times and the things that pass us by and go away, but men like Thurston would always appreciate and never forget. No, the well