Published by Marco A Diaz Edited by Rob Bignell “Jeremy Smith” edited by Amanda Mathis Cover Art by Carla Prato Copyright 2013 Marco A Diaz
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*** THE FORGOTTEN ONES
Upon fissures of a barren soil, the peasants built up their shack on a God’s forsaken land. As the sun dipped in the horizon, the old woman sipped black coffee. “Take your brave face off! It won't take so long.” Brushing some black strands off his forehead, he looked at the worn body seated at the furrowed wooden board. “A year gone! And, we ain’t go any letter.” “Be patient! You'll get your doggone letter. He hasn't sent it 'cause he ain’t warmed up his chair at the desk yet. The young believe that can do all in one day, but not even God made the world in a day,” told she, puckering her brow yet more. Flowing through the holes, yellowish light soaked his bare dark torso. “Out of the horse’s mouth, I heard we’d get the property deed of our land.” The mulatto’s hot air plagued her.
“Stubborn!” she said. Hands up as if were taking both lapels, he paraphrased the governor-to-be candidate, “farming is our…”In his short jargon, he chewed the politician’s word, “priority.” “So?” asked she, nibbling crispy pastry. “He lied through his teeth,” he said, in his usual tone. “What if he didn’t?” “Don’t let the sleeping dogs lie.” The old woman hurled the pewter to one side and, then she said. “What is left to the poor is: believing.” “I no longer hold myself back for his letter.” “You're so stubborn as an ass.” “No… I am realistic! It’s taken one damn year.” “Surely, he has us in mind,” told she. And, he burst into a sarcastic laughter. “No matter what is on his mind now.” “Why?” “No one care about us, not even the major.”