Check out this awesome story. 🙂
(First published on Spelk Fiction)
I grip the handles of the scythe and swing it right to left, right to left. I keep the blade low but away from the dulling stones. It slices through the stems and the wheat falls to my left, into a neat row.
The scythe moves easily; I can work like this for hours. It is satisfying to do something well. This is a good day.
Do not mistake me. I do not forget the bad days or the hungry days, or the pain of life and its grief. I do not forget the long, cold, miserable winters, and the tiny coffins going into the ground.
I forget none of these things; they are in my bones, but, with the warmth of the sun on my back and a breeze stirring the leaves of the oaks, I remember what it is to be alive.
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