September 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
The father was a man in his mid-forties. He had long arms and a strong built. His right foot was crippled. He moved with the assist of a cane. Immediately upon catching sight of his son, the father went inside without saying a word. The boy silently followed him keeping his head lowered.
His father led him to the main hall of their home. At the center of the hall, a giant altar stood. On the altar were eighty seven wooden tablets, each with a different name imprinted on it. When the boy saw the altar, his face showed a heavy expression of sadness. He went down on his knees at once.
“Read to me what is written on this wooden tablet,” the father asked pointing his cane at the largest wooden tablet located at the center of the altar.
“Cha Ri,” the boy replied.
Unsatisfied with the intensity of his answer, the father struck the boy hard on the back of his head with his cane. Despite the pain and his hair soaked with blood, not a single cry was heard.
September 28, 2015 § Leave a comment
As spring once again reigned over the vast grasslands of Mansi, the land was occupied by hundreds of goat herders. While the herders were busy taking care of their livestock, as the animals swallowing up the fresh grass that was available only during springtime, their children were also having their share of fun. The vast grasslands were the perfect playing field for the children.
Among them was a young child, whose appearance differed from the rest of the children. His trim built did not resemble the traditional muscular built of the natives. Nonetheless, the child was probably the happiest boy on the field. He was overwhelmed by the experience.
As the sun was slowly disappearing from view, the herders were preparing to lead their goats back to their pens. The young child suddenly realized what time of the day it was. Without even have time to bid his friends farewell, the boy sprinted home with all his might. As he came closer and closer to home, the joys that had endeared him earlier were quickly dissolving. From the distance, the boy could catch sight of his adopted father, who stood unhappily and impatiently at the gate of his home. The child’s joys turned into sour fears.
September 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting, and autumn a mosaic of them all.” Stanley Horowitz