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jasonandrewHere is my weekly Work In Progress:
"Wooden Swords Made From Busted Grape Crates"
by Jason Andrew
He waited in the warm shade of the citrus tree resting his bare feet in the irrigation trenches that lined the farm. The blue skies offered no clouds for shade or shelter from the cruel sun. Jabbing his pocket knife into the peel of the orange to create a finger hold, the boy feverishly pealed the fruit and broke it in half. Sweet-sour juice dripped down his lips when he bit into it. He eagerly gobbled up both halves. The wash of relief was brief, but welcomed.
He washed his hands and face in the ditch and then soaked his withered t-shirt in the water. The power had gone out in the bunk house and with that the refrigerator. It happened on occasion in the summer, but he certainly missed his ice water. He slipped on his t-shirt simultaneously freezing and withering from the heat and then returned to the grape fields.
The stocks were empty as the workers had only gone through them the week before, but there were dozens of broken trays still scattered about blocking the ditches. The last thing his mother had said to him was to try to collect the wood to recycle.
The entire field had been almost cleared over the course of three days and there had been no word from his mother.
"Wooden Swords Made From Busted Grape Crates"
by Jason Andrew
He waited in the warm shade of the citrus tree resting his bare feet in the irrigation trenches that lined the farm. The blue skies offered no clouds for shade or shelter from the cruel sun. Jabbing his pocket knife into the peel of the orange to create a finger hold, the boy feverishly pealed the fruit and broke it in half. Sweet-sour juice dripped down his lips when he bit into it. He eagerly gobbled up both halves. The wash of relief was brief, but welcomed.
He washed his hands and face in the ditch and then soaked his withered t-shirt in the water. The power had gone out in the bunk house and with that the refrigerator. It happened on occasion in the summer, but he certainly missed his ice water. He slipped on his t-shirt simultaneously freezing and withering from the heat and then returned to the grape fields.
The stocks were empty as the workers had only gone through them the week before, but there were dozens of broken trays still scattered about blocking the ditches. The last thing his mother had said to him was to try to collect the wood to recycle.
The entire field had been almost cleared over the course of three days and there had been no word from his mother.