Here are the first 1,000 words to my next short story, Happy Little Sheds.

MARK BOLTON SAT AT HIS canvas and with a small paintbrush, applied a thin blue outline. Small white earbuds were pressed firmly against his ears that played soft, classical music to balance out his mood. Painting could be stressful, even depressing at times, and the artist needed to do all he could to self medicate. This wasn’t his usual choice of music, but he needed it especially after today. He was always an energetic person, and this is what helped him to unwind. Well, that and a glass of red wine, Pinot Noir to be exact.

He loved Pinot…especially after a hard day like today.

It was a muggy morning in Disputanta, just off Route 460. The fog had recently lifted and a body, triple bagged, was discovered on a farm. It was an unassuming farm, nothing really special about it. Most of the area along this stretch was farmland, and while driving past, if one were to blink they’d miss it. But this morning was different. Three men stood out in the field, looking down at the decaying human.

“Is this where you found the body?” Detective Ramirez asked, looking at a small clearing just a few feet from an old shed. 

“Yeah, right over next to the tree,” the old farmer said. He put a cigarette to his mouth, sucked hard and took a long drag on it. The Marlboro logo was visible on the old pack that jutted from his shirt pocket. His whiskers protruded proudly from his face, and an old fading tattoo that went down his neck and beneath his shirt was noticeable from a distance. The elderly farmer  discovered the body that morning when he came outside to see what kind of damage was done from a nasty rainstorm. A great portion of the area was flooded the previous night, and his farm was hit particularly hard. He’d lost most of his crops but still had time to replant and hope for the best. Rain was common this time of year, but rarely to this extent.

Out in the field where the body was found was an old shed that time had forgotten. Instead of demolishing it he was letting nature take care of it. The flood didn’t destroy the shed, but the area around it was washed away and the soil around a large bush nearby had unearthed a large black bag. 

Inside the bag was a body that had been decaying for quite some time. It had been sealed in for so long that whoever he or she had been at one time, was now a pulpy, liquid mess. The stink of the decaying corpse hit the senses in ways that other aromas didn’t.

“No telling how long it’s been here. I’ve been planting for years and never noticed anything.”

The detective could usually tell when someone was trying to cover something up. The bigger the story, the bigger the lie, and the farmer didn’t come off as though he was trying to cover something up. Some people were natural storytellers with a gift for gab, but most were “deflecting with the details” as he called it.

While looking at the mass of rotting flesh and bones, there was no telling who he or she was. It would take days, maybe weeks for DNA to come up with anything conclusive. Close to 50% of murders went unsolved, and as long as he’d been on the force, how long this would take, or if anything would even come of it at all was up in the air.

The overcast, humid air was heavy. Everything was damp and the sound of the cicadas annoyed the hell out of Detective Ramirez. A car whizzed down 460…clearly speeding. Another one…and then another. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. Kneeling down he opened the bag even further. The putrid stench of old human flesh wafted its way into his nose. Ugh…he could almost taste it.

Three industrial trash bags, each tightly bound with rope ensured that whoever was in there was never going to escape; not on their own, anyway. The person’s hands were still secured behind their back, and the head was turned 180 degrees. The tiny frame of the person made the detective think the deceased was young. Late teens? 15? 16? he thought. Pulling back the fluid-soaked shirt, he watched as decaying matter fell off the bones. The bra was still intact…female.

Damn, he thought. 

He’d barely begun looking over the body and making mental notes when the coroner arrived. The son of a bitch drove right through the farmer’s land like he owned it, tearing up cropland, spraying mud as he punched the gas. There was no need for a siren on his car, but the driver had it blaring as he plowed through a section of land. The last thing they needed was onlookers stopping just off the highway to get a glance of an investigation. For the time being, the area would have to be cordoned off.

Detective Ramirez scanned the area one last time before finally getting in his unmarked car. He sat back in the seat, turned on the engine and looked back over the farmland. 

“Where do I know this place?” he asked as his partner sat down and strapped on his seatbelt. He was much younger and fresh out of the academy. 

“Beats me, sir. You ever been here before?”

“Never,” the detective said. “I’ve never even been this far out on 460 but I know I’ve seen the place somewhere before. It’s very familiar.”

Detective Evan Ramirez had been working at the Richmond Police Department for over 15 years but helped other local departments from time to time. This morning he was working with the office in Disputanta, a small, unincorporated community in Prince George County, Virginia.

This was not the way he wanted to start his day, but in the police department, no two days were ever alike. Even fellow officers who talked about a routine traffic stop knew that there was no such thing. While some days were more thrilling than others, in this profession, the unconventional was to be expected. A dead person in a bag definitely fell into that realm.

As he pulled off from the farm, he looked back at it once more through his rearview mirror. He could see the coroner lifting the bag with the farmer watching his every move. The shed…it was so familiar. I know this place. But where? he thought.