The Village Standing on God’s Feet – 00


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


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.


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