Tuesday, August 03, 2010

Salt Mines

Salt was in the air, on our tongues, in our hair. Leaving everything stained white, the workers hands bled from the excessive flexing of dry and cracked skin. So red was the accent color. This layout, of shocking red in an unending field of white was remeniscent of the sky above. The horizon was long, the clouds this time of year vacant, and the heat of an angry sun seared all it touched.
It was not without irony that the miners were dismissed shortly before High Sun, when she was in her zenith. Starting work at the break of dawn, or whenever a worker was able to show up, and going till the heat was unbearable, but not lethal, was the method used by most labor intensive industries. Thus, the irony was not easily perceived by one entrenched in the culture.
"By the Moons, look at you. Just like your Father!" Carefully inhaling to avoid gagging on wayward salt, he continued, "Jarvis, it is good to see you, but please tell me you aren't looking to work in the pits again?"
Masked behind a wet cloth cum air filter, Jarvis replied, "It is good to be seen, but no, I appreciate the beauty of the mines from the priviledge of a removed point-of-view."
With a gesture of familial curtness, the elder motioned for his guest to join him in the managerial tower. This structure afforded a lookout for windstorms and bandits, alike. The five open sides had the option of two covers. The first a weave of giants hair, providing the occupants with shade, but airflow. The second, which would overlap the first if employed, was a thin reptillian hide, for significant winds. Both were dyed red and purple, the colors of the village. A wagon just arrived at the tower with water after visiting the worker's pavilion.

Michael Mosher 2010 (C)


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