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Chill of Day

by AspiringAuthorA..M.


Chill of day

Everything was cold in the small, frail house. But Helga didn’t mind enduring the chilly weather, because her mom and dad were with her. And besides, the little fireplace was a nice and cozy place to be cuddled next to.

Helga clapped her hands and giggled as she slipped her finger through the vapor fuming from her lips.

“No doughter of mine is gonna smoke tobbeco,” her dad said, cheerfully.

Helga’s mom sighed and wrapped an arm around her, tickling her cheeks. “She ain’t smokin, hun.”

“Course not. It’s just the cold,” her dad said.

Glancing over her shoulder, Helga caught sight of her mom’s dark hair, its oils glowing with the fire. She grabbed a clump of it in her hand and tucked on it, her finger nail snipping out a few strands. Holding them up in front of the glow of the fire she bit her lips.

“Sorry, ma,” she said, letting her hand dangle at her side.

Her mom only smiled down at her. It’s okay, Helga. I needed a haircut anyhow.”

Helga frowned, staring at her mom’s long hair. “No you don’t. Your hair is pretty long.”

Smiling, her mom stroked Helga’s hair. Her hands were rough from the plowing she did throughout the day, and her nails grimed with cold dirt. But none of it could obscure her inner beauty. Helga’s dad, on the hand, was blessed with the gift of literacy, extremely rare, even for the white folks who had once enslaved them, as her parents said.

The only book her dad read, though, was an old Bible that someone from the underground railroad had given him. It, however, according to him, was the most important book in the world. Turning to face her father, a tall, sun blackened man. He was propped against a wall, staring at her and his wife.

“Your hair is beautiful long, Philias. Like a tree with all its leaves,” her dad said, nodding his head slowly.

“Why thank you, Henry,” her mom said.

The fire crackled and hissed. It was a comforting presence in the cold.

“Don’t be afraid,” Henry said. “The fire of the world may flicker and fade, but God’s light will never falter.” Helga felt a smile crease her cheeks, but it wrinkled and collapsed on itself as ferocious hands struck the house’s door.

His flesh was warm with blood lust, and his palms vibrating with adrenaline. So far they had forced about half a dozen blacks to vote Democrat, surely these would, too. It was so convenient, having spies check out houses around this part of Texas. Nodding at the door, the hooded white figure brought his fists against it again.

“Open up, soulless apes!” the hooded man to his left growled.

Helga trembled at the voice. The Ghosts were knocking at their door. Her parents had told them all about them. They were born only for one reason, to reestablish slavery. During these dark times that were showing flickers of light, they were going to do this by getting a democratic President to win the election.

Henry twirled around and looked down at the back wall of the house. Panting, her dad thrust his foot against the bottom, scooting aside several flimsy boards. Staring at Helga, he gestured for her to crawl underneath.

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. There was no way she could leave her parents alone to face the Ghosts.

“Helga, go,” her mom said.

“No.”

With fear and pain blazing in his shifting eyes, her dad grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to bend down, shoving her out through the hole.

Her face struck the outside air, stabbing at her like needles. Still on her hands and knees, Helga looked back, ready to slip back inside. “Run,” her dad whispered as he blocked the hole with some logs. The last thing she saw of her dad was his scarred right arm. He’d gotten that scar as he stopped his, now wife, from being whipped. All the punishment she was going to take, he endured.

Helga shook her fists. Such a brave man her dad was, and now both he and her mom were going to endure suffering for her. Unable to bear being without them, she gripped the thick logs blocking the hole, but stopped, knowing her parents were only protecting her. Pressing her shivering body against the house, she listened to the door explode inward, clattering on the ground.

“Sorry bout your door, shadows,” a man said, cackling, but then weeded.

“How can I help you intruders? Maybe give your friend there a cup o’ warm water for his throat?” she could hear her dad ask.

“Be funny while you can, because our next President is gonna have you all back to workin!” another voice said.

“We’re not voting for your Democratic Tyrant,” her dad said, firm authority in his deep voice.

“Then die for a failed cause,” the sick man wheezed.

“No,” Helga whispered as she realized what had happened. Her dad had defied the Ghosts. Looking at the woods in front of her, Helga knew she would have to flee into them. She would be traveling through nowhere to get to somewhere.

As she picked herself up off the cold ground with shivering hands, she internally prayed for her family. Surely they’d outwit the Ghosts. But then she remembered that her parents were not liars; they’d speak only the truth, even if it meant death. Still, before she faded into the trees, she’d observe her parent’s stand.

***

Vapor fumed from the donkey’s nostrils as it plodded through the woods. Twigs and laves glazed with ice scrunched under its hooves. Within its sight was a frozen pond, surrounded by snow covered grasses and bare trees. Rearing its head to the sky, the donkey ground to halt, mesmerized by its intense white light. A mist was dancing over the pond, and slithering among the trees.

The donkey’s heart was still thumping ferociously and its eyes swiveling. A pack of two legged wolves had attacked his master and burned down his house. The last thing the donkey remembered about his master was his scream.

“Run, Job! Run!” his master’s words had echoed behind him after he had jumped the fence and fled into the woods. Such a kind person its master was. Every morning after the rooster crowed he’d walk to his enclosure. Not to feed him, but just to be with him. Job’s ears twitched as he remembered how good his masters stroking his neck felt.

What was strange was that the white wolves were about the same size as his master. Opening his mouth and shaking his head, the donkey proceeded toward the pond.

“Run, Job! Run!” the words continued to sound in his ears. Job knew what the strange sounds meant. Leave me and roam free. Leaves rustled to Job’s right and he arched his back, preparing to gallop away. Seeing that it was only a deer, Job relaxed his back and plodded along.

This was rather lively, he thought. He’d never been down this way before. Strange, why would his master take him in other directions, but never this way? There was even water here. It was such a perfect destination. Crackles rumbled in front of him. The frozen water was alive with shimmers. It was like a cold, white gem.

When Job cleared the chilly grass, he bent down and said, “HEE-HAHH!” as his hooves struck the frigid ice of the pond. His hooves pierced the surface, causing the ice sheet to spider-web, and his feet sunk into the cold, shallow water.

“HEE-HAHH!” Job cried again, jumping out of the water. In clumsy hops, he ran along the pond’s bank, shaking the tremors away. He could barley feel his legs, because they were so cold. The snow itself had never bothered him much, but the water was absolutely unbearable.

Job stopped and caught his breath and simply stared at the dead plant life around him. Even in death, it was oddly beautiful. He tensed up as soft, yet swift footfalls sounded from somewhere across the pond. Something was coming in fast, but not in an aggressive, hunter’s manner. No. Whatever it was was frightened.

He wanted to run off, but his joints were locked up and his muscles refused to move. Bending his ears toward the sounds, Job flared his nostrils, spraying vapor, like a dragon. Suddenly, a short figure exploded from beside some trees in the distance, sprinting in awkward, almost stumbling jumps over small logs.

“Hee-HAHH-HUU-HUU!” he bellowed. The short figure stopped, frozen by his cry. Grayish white mist wisped around it, obscuring parts of its body. Upon closer inspection, though, Job noticed it was the same dark brown color of his master, only, its hair was long. Maybe it was a friend? Surely it was not a white, two legged wolf.

“Donkey!” the thing said, its scream a mere whisper. From the gentle, bird like pitch it made, Job guessed it was female.

Job lowered his head, staring the thing down, but still, trying to appear threatening. Sensing that he had accomplished being docile, Job craned his neck back up. The thing confirmed that he had as it approached him, panting as it shambled over the frozen pond. The surface thumped with a heart-beat.

“C-can you h-help me?” it said.

Help. Job’s master had used that word when he wanted assistance pulling or carrying something. Scanning the area, he saw that there was nothing to be either pulled or carried, so what could it want? All he knew was that it was very frightened.

The short thing stopped beside him and cradled his side. Job shook his head, cheerfully. It felt almost like his master’s strokes, only, these were gentler. The things hands were much smoother than his master’s rough ones. Surely it had to be a younger kind of his master’s species.

***

Helga giggled, despite her terror as she brushed the donkey’s side. But then she remembered why she had approached it. Her legs were throbbing with fire, every breath stung her lungs, and she was feeling dizzy. The “Ghost things’ had banged on her parents house and when they didn’t answer, they pushed it open.

The Ghosts had ordered her dad to vote Democrat in the next election, and if he didn’t, he’d be killed. Her parents did plan to vote, and said told the Ghosts that they would never do such a thing. They could have lied! But they didn’t. Why did she think otherwise? Her parents weren’t liars. Still, though, they’d be alive now if they had!

“Donkey, please!” Helga said, patting its side. “The Klan is after me! They hanged my family and burned our house.”

Feeling tears build in her eyes, Helga pounded on the donkey’s side with punches asking for a ride again and again. The cold around her was nothing, not with the Ghostly Klan after her. Such foul names they had called her family. Her dad had kicked a hole in the back of the house and forced her out, covering it with some logs.

She had no choice but to leave, and still, she waited outside, pasting her ears against the side, listening to her parents make their last stand of freedom. Freedom in a sense that her dad could not vote. Vote only for what the evil Klan said he could. It was only another form of slavery. Her family wouldn’t have it though and instead voluntarily became martyred for the protection of freedom. But what freedom were they defending? They still had to live like runaway slaves, after all. Still, she knew that if a democrat won the election he’d bring slavery back and make it a lot worse, too. So they hadn’t died for nothing.

Shouts rang behind her and she snapped out of her trance. She twirled around and gasped. Horses neighed from within the fog, and their snorts were like demon growls, hissing her death. The donkey jerked its head from side to side, afraid.

“You hear that, donkey? Those are Ghosts. The Klan.”

***

The klan. The first time the girl, that’s what the thing was, Job had felt his blood freeze. His master had mentioned the Klan many times. And once, Job had seen them. That was the day he knew realized wolves could walk on two legs. The girl’s “Ghosts” were his White Wolves; wolves that had attacked his master. With a pang of pain in his chest, the donkey bellowed.

The monstrous beasts had killed his master! What else could they have done? Shooting out a mouthful of steam, Job lowered himself to the ground. The girl promptly sprang up on his back and grasped the hair on the back of his head and dug her feet against his sides. Despite the initial discomfort, the sensation of having something on his back felt good.

Job’s state of nostalgia was returned to cold fear as the girl pounded against his neck shrilling, “Run! Run!”

In the split second of him springing up on his feet, Job saw the girl’s Ghosts materialize from the trees, astride smoke belching horses. Job’s teeth grinded against each other. His horse cousins, he knew, were extremely agile. But the girl’s commands were still screaming at him and, snorting he turned around and bellowed as he charged into a jarring run.

“Get back here, Souless-snake!” a Ghost howled.

“Hang with your parents!” another barked.

Twigs exploded underneath his hooves as he tore through the mist of the woods. It seemed to way him down like an evil force. The fog, it was an enemy to the light of day. His large eyes shifted in his skull, seeing the horses bearing down, swift as predatory wolves, their riders white as the snow.

Wind shipped at Job’s ears like cold fire, and the mucus in his nostrils scraped like sandpaper. Whining as his front legs bashed against a log, Job almost tumbled over, but regained his balance. The girl on his back screamed, digging her nails into his neck, and threatening to wrench his fur off.

Cracks like thunder roared at his sides, and the bark on trees splintered off. The white riders were firing some kind of invisible lightning bolts from sticks! Horses neighed as they gained on Job, tearing up the ground.

“Aghh!” a rider on the left shrilled as another clap of thunder boomed. In his peripheral vision, Job saw the rider’s robes bloom with redness, and then he slumped on his side, falling of his horse.

“Lincoln!” another man said.

“Leave him! We need to catch the colored girl!” commanded a deep voice.

Job scanned his surroundings. Trees in every direction, no where to hide. And then he saw it, a low elevated, bush covered area, full of tall, pointy trees which still had there leaves. Throwing his feet forward, Job made for the hill, lunging and kicking up snow caked dirt.

With the bottom of the hill only a few feet away, Job launched himself off his feet, and shot down it, the girl screaming and tugging on his neck hair. His hooves rattled as they took the shock of the impact of hitting the bottom. Job could hear the horses and riders behind him; they’d seen his change of direction and were bearing in fast.

“I’ll take the shot!” someone said, and then there was an ear shattering clatter of thunder, but it was nothing compared to the girl’s scream.

The girl fell forward on his neck, and then spasms shook her body, followed by sobs, and then, Job felt warmness seep through his fur. A coopery smell entered his nostrils. That smell, he had inhaled it before once when he had cut one of his front legs on a jagged rock. Blood. The girl had been hit by one of the invisible lighting bolts!

“I’m shot, donkey,” the girl said, her voice only a raspy whisper. “I can’t hold on… I’m… slipping.”

Job shook his head and whined as he felt her fingers and legs loosen against him. No! The girl could not leg go. Not after all he’d taken her through. She was his burden, and he’d escort her far away from this place. After all, it was in his blood to carry things across worlds. Before he’d met his master, Job had carried and pulled things across valleys, through mountains, waded through raging waters, trod through brutal storms, all for a sense of satisfying his master. But he always felt somehow under accomplished; inadequate, no matter how much he endured.

“I got er! Let’s get out of here,” trailed the eerie voice from up the hill.

“No,” said another, “let’s catch that donkey.”

As horses pattered down the hill, Job increased the length of is strides, more afraid for the girl than for himself. He ran and ran, and his pursuers followed, like the trailing of the girl’s blood, they wouldn’t stop. The earth was alive with the thumpings of death.

Spotting a long log to his right, Job galloped in that direction, skipping around the far end, and his hunters followed. A loud chorus of pained neighs trailed after him. His plan had worked, the horses had hit the log and stumbled.

“Get up, you animals!” someone said, anger spewing from his lips.

Job lowered his head and whipped through the densely packed trees, scooting behind bushes for concealment. Flashes of snow capped green blurred past and no matter how much his tendons and joints ached for collapse, he swallowed his pain and kept running.

The donkey had outwitted his pursuers and shot to the east, encountering another steep hill, and now, he was at a house with a barn in a secluded refuge of tall pine trees. Smoke could be seen rising above the house, a dancing serpent in the breeze.

He approached the front door, unsure of why he was doing such a thing. From observing his master, he knew he had no reason for being anywhere near a human’s home. He had his own place in an enclosure or when he was sometimes fortunate enough, a barn.

When his nose was almost pressed against the door frame, Job rumbled quietly. He could hear slow, oddly strategically placed footfalls approach.

“Yes?” an equally slow, but soothing voice asked.

Job bumped his head against the door frame, rumbling as rhythmically as he could.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice said, followed by some jingling metals and clinks. The door opened and a short, gray haired, wrinkle faced man stood before him. His eyes were oddly scrunched up, and his left hand was waving in the air, toward Job, while his other was gripping a cane so tightly that his blue veins squirmed in his bony hand.

***

“Can you help me?” the girl whispered?

The old man’s nose wrinkled and his lips slumped down into a frown. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m dying,” she replied, coughing.

“Come in, come in, donkey. Bring yourself and that poor girl into my home’s warmth,” the old man said, grabbing a hold of Job’s head, gently guiding him inside. “Now just what happened, girl?”

“I was shot,” she said, crying.

“My…” the man said, “why would such a thing happen?”

Helga peeked around the donkey’s head and gasped, in the back corner of the old man’s small house was a Ku Klux Klan robe and hat. Its empty eye sockets seemed to be staring up at her, mocking her lose of blood.

She held her breath as the man turned to face her, the brows above his scrunched eyes ruffling. “I can’t see ya, girl, but I can tell ya must be a sweet, innocent thing. No reason why anyone should shoot ya.”

Helga mentally exhaled. As long as he didn’t touch her rough hair, he wouldn’t know she wasn’t some lost white girl. But if he did, surely he’d be angry to have invited her into his home. But still, regardless of what happened, she knew she couldn’t stay, the Klan would be sure to check the house.

Helga coughed and could feel warm blood spew from her lips. What was the use? She was going to die no mater what happened. The wound on her side was only pouring out more blood, and showing no signs of stopping.

She held her breath as the old man approached, his cane thumping on the house’s floor like a heartbeat. His free hand was outstretched, reaching for her.

“Speak girl, so I can find you and help you off that donkey,” he said, his voice not commanding, but calming and passionate.

Finding herself hypnotized by it, she whispered, “Here.”

When he was within reaching distance, she extended her hand, and allowed him to hoist her off the donkey, who shifted slightly as she was taken off. Helga gritted her teeth against the tearing sensation she felt on her side. It was as if she was being torn in half.

“Easy, little one,” the man said, carrying her toward the fireplace.

Helga’s eyes shifted around the house, admiring the wooden tables, chairs, neatly assorted logs, and the paintings on the walls. What caught her eye the most, however, was a Bible resting on a small, round table.

“I can feel you admirin my house, little one,” he said. “I’ve never seen it with my eyes. My wife was my eyes. She used to read to me the single book I have here.”

“The Bible?”

“Yes. Brought me out of my ways as a Klan member. Thang is, it’s also what they sometimes use to justify their ways.“

The girl’s mouth gaped open, but she quickly closed it as more blood flowed out. He wasn’t a Klan member anymore. What were the odds? She was so sure that she had fallen into the wolf’s den, and yet, the donkey had taken her to safety.

“How did you get away?”

“Faith," he said. "Thang is, when I was one, I had my sight. My world only slowleh began to fade, then it was gone forever. But really, now that I am blind, I finally see.” He shook his head. “Why did it have to be this way? I don’t know, but I don’t blame God, just myself fer not seein it sooner. We see not with our eyes, but faith. Or something like that. I can't remember everything my wife read to me."

“Mista, there are Kaln members out there. They shot me.”

He paused mid-step, almost stumbling, but catching himself with his cane grinding the floor. “No! Them no good demons have no shame.” His hands vibrated, and his knees buckled.

“Mista, you don’t need to worry about me,” Helga said, before she bended over and gritted her teeth, and bit down a scream as her insides twitched violently.

“I shall do not such thang,” he said. The man pointed to the donkey, who was laying down by the fire, staring up at them, his round eyes reflecting fire. “That donkey brought ya to me, and I am gonna treat them wounds you got.”

The old man stared at her with his clear, yet vacant eyes. They saw nothing, and yet, they saw so much into her. Helga pursed her lips and felt her eyelids flap. Warmness throbbed behind her eyes, even when the wind howled from outside the house’s walls. And then, as the old man raised a hand and traced the air with it, she reached out and grasped it.

His hands were rough with the experience of life’s tribulations, physically damaged, but emotionally and intellectually exercised. But his spirit, she knew, was far greater than even that. He had once been part of the Klan, could see, but was blind. And now he was blind to the world, but could finally see truth. He and she were probably no different in their faith, they were after all, about equal. She having been alive for only a few breathes, and he for years, but only recently introduced to God’s truth.

And then, just as the old man was guiding her to a corner of the house with a small cabinet, the house rang with the knocks of death.

Helga tensed up and opened her mouth to say something, but the man sensed what she was about to say, and instead, she heard her thoughts come from his lips.

“They’re here.”

“What do we do?” Helga whispered, looking up at the man and into his eyes, as if he could see her.

His nose wrinkled and the ancient lines on his forehead creased in concentration. “We don’t answer,” he finally said. “Pray in our minds that they leave.”

Helga nodded and closed her eyes, praying in her mind, even as pain pulsed through her, cooking her inside.

Lord, keep the Ghosts of this world out. I thank you for every day of my life, and I blame you not that you decided to take my family. I am suffering, and I am not angry at you. The Ghosts knock on these doors of the earth, but they cannot knock on your gates, as they never close, but nor can they enter them, as the immoral are not allowed in your kingdom. God, you are eternal, and your foundation is truth. The Ghosts outside thrive on lies, and he who does so dies.

The knocks kept on beating against the wood, and the house was silent. So silent that not even Job the donkey stirred. But Helga’s and the old man’s mind were filed with words to God. The world was loud, but their shouts to God were mightier.

***

The old man’s heart, spirit and mind were praying to God, and the Klan outside was knocking. They, like every dweller on the earth, were thirsty for water, but were to arrogant to see the stream before them. His eyes were blind, but his spirit could look down from the mountains, and scan the valley of the shadow of death with eyes like an eagle.

God, we alone are weak and dead. But through your son’s sacrifice, a way was made. And I accepted your gift of salvation. I gave up the ways of the world, and invited you to live in me. I died, and yet I was reborn. If the Klan outside is thirsty, then let them enter, but if they came only to destroy, then let them go on.

The fire crackled, wind whistled, wood rattled, hearts thumped, floors creaked, breathes whispered, and still, the old man prayed. Time was going on outside, but he was in worship, and if he could, he’d never leave. And then, like the smoke of the faded flame on a tip of sulfur, the knocks ceased.

The old man opened his lips and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”

“Amen,” the girl said. The word was beautiful, but her voice so raspy he knew her breathes were counting down.

Rubbing his parched lips together the man turned to where the donkey, which was getting up from the sound causing the floor, crackling like a shattering bridge.

“The donkey is hurt,” the girl said.

The old man only nodded. However hurt he was, from the sound his movements made, and the even rhythm of his breathes, he had sustained no lethal injuries. Its hurt would mend over time, but the poor girl’s gushing puncture would continue to leech her life away unless by some miracle it stopped flowing.

His world was now black. The color that he had once hated in his fellow humans. Now he understood that everyone was equally wretched. But this was no time to think about that, if he could do anything for the girl it was be by her side as she passed on.

He closed his eyes. Even while it made no difference to his dark world, it made him feel more at ease with things. He put a hand over where he could hear the girl’s erratic, but slowing breathes and began to sing.

“His tears are coming down white as snow,

Outside in the whiteness wolves hunt the doe,

But He chases the wolves away,

And every evil that the young doe faces the next day,

Even when the flowers are no longer sweet in the dead of night,

The doe does not submit to fright,

Because His glorious majesty is bright,

The bears are sleeping, but evil still stalks,

Slithering toward everything that walks;

Their venom of war is sin,

But they’re in a futile battle that He will win,

In this war, everything is at stake,

But His word is pure might,

And with it we win the fight,

Even if we die on the battlefield, our cry rings eternally in the slithering ones ear,

For the rest of his days, he will live in fear,

Because He was already the victor before first blow,

And his water of life will never cease to flow,

We desire to be up there, past the sky,

In a kingdom where we will no longer cry,

And we know that the end on this earth is nigh,

For the people on this earth will listen in captivation, as we tell them of your salvation.”

Behind him, he could hear the donkey approach, and the wind outside begin to slow. The world was stilling, as if it too, knew that the girl’s breathes time was chiming to a close. Death was amicable for both of them, for nothing on the earth was meant to last, apart from the Holy Spirit living in them. Over the years, the old man had gained sagacity, but it all meant nothing since he had only recently come to fear God, and that, from what his wife had read him from the book of Proverbs, was the beginning of wisdom.

The girl, what was her name, and had she already come to know God? He scrunched his brow. What a fool he was! He may not be able to save her body, but he could at least tell her of Christ’s gift of eternal life. Had she already told him she was a believer? He couldn’t be sure, since he was horrible at recalling recent events.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“Helga,” she said.

“Helga, do you know God?”

“Yes, mister. He made me alive.”

The old man smiled. So she knew that she was dead, and now lived. Good.

“Where are your parents?” he said.

“Their breath has returned to Him.”

He bowed his head. So they had already died. Behind his lips, his teeth were grinding each other.

“Was it the Klan?”

The girl was silent, but then said, “Yes.” Time was silent between them, and the girl reached out with a hand and gripped his. “Your hand has been alive a long time.”

“No, he said, like me, it was never alive until now. I used it only for destruction.” His hand trembled around her tiny, cold one. She was fading, and yet, from her tightening grip, she was fighting. But then her struggle weakened as the seconds passed.

“Am I going to sleep?” Helga asked.

The old man smiled and slowly shook his head. “No. You’re waking up.”

The girl was silent, and then she said, “Good. My mom and papa don’t like it when I sleep during the day.”

The old man chuckled. “There’s always word to be done, ain’t there?”

“Always,” she said. “And, Mista, see that donkey, there? I mean-“

“No, no, it’s okay, Helga. I thank God that I can no longer see the evil of dis world.”

“I think you could use him. He seems to really like your house.”

He smiled, picturing how the donkey must be walking around, trying to eat the walls and tables. Curiously smart critters donkeys were, not as stubborn as they’re made out to be. If it could talk, he’d probably be sad about the girl’s passing, too.

***

Job shut the strange objects inside the house from his mind and instead walked toward the girl, his head low and his eyes wide with sadness. The smell of departure was in the air. He stopped beside her and stretched his neck down, putting his right eye next to her. Blood seeped through her smile, and her tears flowed into her mouth. She was tasting…what-sorrow? Smiling? Humans sure were interesting.

“Don’t be sad, donkey,” she said, rubbing the side of his head. “I’m just waking up. Forever,” she whispered.

And then her hand slumped down from beneath his eye and closed her eyes, her lungs stopping. In his mind, Job knew it was fortuitous that she was gone from this land. He’d seen many things, and they upset him. But however treacherous the road became for him, he always obeyed his master. And the girl, who ever she served, was without a doubt, the world’s best master. Because even in death, she showed no fear.

The old man beside the girl craned his neck to look at him. “Thank ya, donkey, for bringin this servant of da most high.

I’ve felt so alone.”

Job didn’t know what most of the words meant, but he knew they had to be good. And if the girl trusted the man, then so would he. The girl in their midst was gone, but she had brought them together. And as for his master, wherever the girl was going, he’d be there, too. Of that, he was sure. Maybe they’d be friends.

Whatever the case was, the old man and he would be friends during these darkening days. But what was this election thing that his master talked about? For better or worse, he would soon discover what it would hold for him, the man, and everyone taking refuge among the trees, and beyond.

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Mon Dec 13, 2010 9:25 pm
ziggiefred wrote a review...



Hello there :)
Wow, this was really long. Anyway, I managed to get through it. First of all, the topic you chose is very challenging in terms of the magnitude or how much of a big deal is. To get most of the emotions and realness of the story across is a very difficult task, especially if it's something you haven't gone through personally, which I suspect is the case here. The beginning was a little vague for me, I did not really get into the story and figure out what was happening. However, I have to say that as the story unfolded, the execution was quite good under the circumstances. I like your writing style, you know how to describe events well which I think created that sort of gripping gesture in your piece. So good work.

Keep writing





Oh, Brightlord Tumul! How unexpected it is to see you standing there! I didn't mean to insult your stupidity. Really, it's quite spectacular and worthy of much praise.
— Wit (The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson)