The Village Standing on God’s Feet – 01

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Here is part two! Yes, they are very small but I’m taking it step by step… Again, a warning to those Grammar Nazis… it’s unedited.

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Tossing the plant over to a side, he sat on the floor. The sun was still at the peak of the sky, burning anyone who would dare challenge him. When would God call down a mighty storm? His people were crying and pleading. When would he call unto God, selfishly, for help? Was it time to give up? The lack of plates and food in his home, dusty, soot covered furniture and torn pages from an old diary – they all adorned a silent little home. Walking up to a small clay container, he poured some its contents on a tiny, stained cup. His hands shook with fatigue.

“Camille! Camille!” Lena’s voice filtered through the thinly woven cloth that divided each room from the other. “Mother is searching for you.”

He walked over to the door, scraping the floor with its uneven corner, he forced it open. “Lena, I thought you were at the early meet n’ greet.”

“Yes, we were, and you weren’t there. What’s wrong? My family is in debt to your parent’s… they promised to keep you safe.”

“My father was doing his job, you know that.”

“Camille… don’t do this. Let’s go.”

He turned away, but his attempts at hiding were thwarted by a soft tug on his dusty shirt. “Camille, please?”

Escaping her soft grip, he shooed her; slowly closing the door. Much to his dismay, she forced herself, halfway through. Staring blankly at her eyes, he turned around. “Do as you may.”

“Camille! Why must you be so stubborn?”

“Lena, why are YOU stubborn?” Tossing his cup at a small statue, holding the door to the living room open, he turned to her. She wouldn’t back down. “I don’t need anybody’s debt paid. My parents are gone. The debt has been settled. Go home.”

Silence ensued. A strong breeze shook the very foundation of the ill-maintained building. “Tomorrow, I’ll climb the mountain of God.” Camille’s eyes were burning with determination; a fire that engulfed Lena’s smile. “If God will not come to us, then I shall go to Him.”

That night, he sat by the well at the edge of the village. Holding his father’s diary in his hands, he read what he had gone through that faithful day: the day he died.

“Two hours till the break of dawn, my hands are numb, my lips are dry. The feeling running down my spine is ominous and depressive as the black, tar-like fluid that runs deep in my veins. The feeling of fire burning through my entrails is second only to the fear of leaving those whom I love the most, behind. Never forget that God watches over every one of us, lest we fall into despair, never forget to look up and thank him every time you find yourself staring up at His Mountain.”

Closing the book, he looked up at the bright lights that never seemed to fade away. God must surely know why his people are suffering so. God must know why he lost everything. God must know, he was sure of it.

The Village Standing on God’s Feet – 00

Sun

This is a new project! 😀 Finally, in a very long time! As alwasy, I don’t edit this stuff so Grammar Nazis beware.

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A single ray of light seeping through the ill-arranged pieces of wood that barely held together a roof; the wind was blowing with a peculiar ferocity, as it had done for many days now. Birds chirping away at the sight of a barren landscape sparsely dotted with trees – now overwhelmed with weeds faithfully growing on the cracked, dusty ground. He got up from the hammock that slowly swung to and fro, as a loud creak shook the very foundation of the room.  It was pretty early in the morning, rain had yet to fall. Large nets, hung overnight for any surprise midnight showers, were slowly unwound and dragged inside rickety old homes. The village survived another day, but for how long? They probably won’t be able to see another day – it was looking bleak for the village standing at the feet of god.

With mechanical precision, he fixed the torn rope and dropped the small wooden containers inside the well. A loud thumb signaled a hardened, empty bottom. Water had become an expensive resource. The only thing that had kept him alive for so long was extracting liquid from the large, prickly vegetation that grew in abundance in the surrounding areas. Grabbing a hold of a large net and a small machete, he placed his old sandals on his feet and slowly walked towards the east, were the sun had come out. Life had been easier in the past, life had been simple: survival was within everyone’s grasp. Three years after his mother’s death, everything went downhill.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he looked up at the clear sky: not a single cloud in sight. Beyond that ominous blue color was the mountain of God. The shadow of the mountain protected them from many disasters, unlike most of their neighbors. God had favored them, so, it was only reasonable that He’d never let them die. Looking past its rocky base stood a dome of light – the realm of the Creator, or so the old people used to say. His hand covered in blisters, a slender needle protruding from his thumb and scars of olden injuries. Hard and coarse, his hands lay testament to a difficult past. Wiping, once again, the buildup of sweat on his face, he swung his machete at the base of the plant, flinging needles in every direction, seeing it fall on its side. A viscous, clear fluid oozed from its base – that was his elixir of life.