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|A rural tragedy (standard:drama, 1039 words)|
|Author: siromah||Added: Oct 30 2006||Views/Reads: 1743/1066||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A sad story for a young kind who lost his grandfather.|
A RURAL TRAGEDY Siromah The carter flourished his whip and viciously lashed the donkey. “Move, you sluggard.” In the cart was a cheap wooden coffin. A few bunches of flowers lay on the dead man's chest. For his journey to the next world, he was clad in his uniform of a colonel of the Yugoslav army, with all his decorations. Three elderly women, a middle-aged couple and an eight-year old boy were walking in the cart's wake. The boy reached down for a handful of mud, made a ball and flung it at the black bird that was cawing on a roadside tree. Startled, the crow flew off. “Stop it! How many times do I have to say it?” The young woman, her face haggard with grief, slapped the child's bottom. “Look at you. You look like a chimney sweep. I can't believe you did this to your new clothes.” The urchin made a wry face and sobbed aloud. His wails startled a small lonely sparrow. “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” The man gave him a fierce look and the boy froze, whimpering quietly and trying to wipe his tears. “Don't cry, honey.” The woman wiped away the child's tears and hugged him. “Be a good boy.” The child threw his hands around her neck and stopped sobbing. “Move, Marko!” The carter lashed the donkey and adjusted the hood of his raincoat. “Damn funeral!” The rain kept pouring. The sad procession finally reached the old Christian cemetery. The carter jumped off the cart and opened the rusty iron door. The hinges gave a painful creak. A crow flew over the cemetery and perched on an overturned gravestone. The carter led the donkey by the reins. The child started to cry again. “I want home!” “Be patient, honey,” said the women and kissed him gently on the cheek. “We will be going home soon.” The man frowned and raised the collar of his cheap overcoat. “Can't you make him stop whining? He's getting on my nerves.” He glared at the boy. “What a mollycoddle he is!” “Why don't you leave the kid alone,” she flared. “He's cold and he's soaked to the skin, that's why he's crying.” Suddenly her voice was no longer soft, it now had a steel ring, and the woman's beautiful brown eyes flashed angrily. The man muttered something and hurried on. He stumbled into a stone and fell flat in the sticky mud. “Damn it!” he swore, spitting mud. “Fucked weather!” He tried to stand up but he slipped and fell back on his face. He swore angrily. The child laughed, staring at him wide-eyed. For an instant he forgot he was hungry and wet and a smile flashed on his face. “Mom, look,” he laughed. “A scarecrow.” “Hush, be quiet,” she reproached him and gave him a gentle slap on the back. “Your father...” “He is not my real father,” the boy interrupted and frowned again. “How... how did you know,” the mother gasped and looked at him suspiciously. “Granny Maria told me: he is not your real father, your real father left your mother when you were three years old... Is that true, Mom?” “Listen, honey, we'll talk about it later... I can't carry you, you are too heavy...” “Let him walk,” the man broke in. “Look what a big boy he is.” The boy splashed happily in the mud and started humming a tune. Click here to read the rest of this story (63 more lines)
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