Hard Labour

Sweat ran in rivulets down the young man’s bronzed back. His muscles rippled under the strain of his labours. Already it had become monotonous; thrust, lift, turn, pour.

The ground was baked hard by the blazing sun that beat down. Martin paused to wipe sweat from his handsome face, with the kerchief he kept in his waistband. From the corner of his eye he saw the man with a gun raise his eyebrows. With a sigh that seemed to come from his feet, Martin resumed his work, ignoring the pain and blood that oozed from his hands.

Thrust, lift, turn, pour.

The man smiled. Moving a little, so he was once again in the comforting shade of the large rock. His eyes never leaving the younger man, his gun held unwavering.

Overhead, in the cloudless sky, vultures began to circle expectantly.

Martin ignored them, as he ignored everything else but the man. He let his thoughts drift back to the circumstances that had led to this. Would he have changed any of it he wondered?

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