Sandbag Fence Builder - Blog 97

Here's a short fictional story about a 25 lb sandbag helping build a fence:

The sun hung low over the dusty plains of New Haven, casting long shadows across the cracked earth. Mara squinted at the horizon, her hands gritty from hauling the last of her supplies from the old pickup. She’d come out here to claim her late uncle’s scrap of land—a stubborn patch of dirt bordered by nothing but sagebrush and ambition.

The deed was hers, but the coyotes didn’t care, and neither did the wind that howled through every night, promising to steal anything not nailed down. She needed a fence, and she needed it fast.

Problem was, Mara had exactly one fence post, a roll of rusty wire, and a single 25 lb sandbag she’d found in the truck bed, half-torn and leaking grains like an hourglass. The nearest hardware store was 40 miles off, and her gas gauge was kissing empty. “Well,” she muttered, kicking the sandbag, “you’re gonna have to earn your keep.”

She started with the post, driving it into the ground with a rock since she didn’t have a mallet. It wobbled like a drunk scarecrow, mocking her. The wire wouldn’t stay taut without more posts, and the wind was already tugging at it. That’s when Mara eyed the sandbag. She dragged it over, propping it against the post’s base, then lashed it tight with a strip of twine from her pocket. The post stood straighter, defiant. “Huh,” she said, stepping back. “Not bad.”

Night fell, and the coyotes came sniffing. Mara didn’t sleep—she watched. The wind battered the wire, but the sandbag held its ground, a silent sentinel. By morning, she’d scavenged the land for more: a few twisted branches, a chunk of rebar from an old well. She planted them as posts, each one steadied by that same sandbag while she rigged the wire. It wasn’t pretty—crooked, patched, barely a fence—but it marked her claim.

Days later, a neighbor rolled by, squinting at her handiwork. “What’s that holding it up?” he asked, nodding at the sandbag, now sun-bleached and frayed.

Mara grinned, brushing sand from her hands. “That’s Old Grit. Best hired help I ever had.”

The neighbor chuckled, tipping his hat. “Looks like Old Grit’s got some stories to tell.”

And so it did. The fence stood, a testament to one woman, one post, and a 25 lb sandbag that refused to let go.

Thank you for reading. Leave a comment. We know this is really bad.