Across the Field

This week I am taking a different approach in the this column, and sharing a 500 word portion of a fictional short story I am working on. The inspiration is what I see, what I read, and what I feel. Perhaps it is an exaggeration, but perhaps not. That is for you to decide. If you like it, let me know. If you hate it, let me know. If it makes you feel something, definitely, please let me know. Depending on the quality of responses, I may decide to share the rest of the story, but for now, Across the Field...

A boy sits in his yard. Well, it can’t really be considered a yard, for it has neither grass nor trees, but rocks. Behind him is his house. This too is an exaggeration, for the wood, held loosely together with rust nails and frayed rope, in no way resembles a house. To the boy however, it is the only pile of rocks and the only stack of wood he knows, and it is the only one he will ever know. He was born into poverty, born into the third world. But to this particular boy, in this particular scorching piece of land, there is no world outside of his little hut and his sun burnt lawn. He knows a father, loves a father, but only hears stories about a mother who is long gone, taken by disease. He has friends, but they are just like him.

Everyday, at the same time, the boy sits on the same hot rock and watches the same blue truck travel past him, emitting dark clouds of poison into the air, before finally coming to a stop at the warehouse that looms over the boy’s property. Just like the day before, and the day before that, the boy stands with his torn shirt, dirty shorts, and bare feet as the back of the door of the warehouse opens. He watches intently as three white men load the truck with fruits and vegetables picked from the 250-acre farm next to the warehouse, which again, is next to the boy’s house.

The boy’s father spends ten hours a day on that farm, yet they both live on stale bread and dirty water. His father earns little money, but he doesn’t desire it for it buys nothing in his town but stale bread. Instead he asks for simply food to feed his boy, so he can grow and lead a healthy life. But his simple wish isn’t granted. The food is taken out of the poor area, out of the poor country, across the big ocean and to the rich areas, the rich countries, the rich people. To the people that have already had enough to eat, but they still pretend to be hungry. They play a game. A game of consumption. If something is out there to be consumed, people in the rich areas of the rich countries will take it, just so someone else can’t.

Go To Page: 1 2

Articles in this Topic    Discussions in this Topic