Sunlight glances off sickles held high above their heads.

Proud sun at its zenith, sky flawless azure. A breeze weaves their hair into dance  – in and out, away it goes.

A wheatsheaf stook adorned with gold; tall and glorious it stands. Momentarily interrupting the golden sun, drawing a cold curtain over the ecstasy and laughter, fleeting obscurity.

Sunlight catches sickles held high above their heads.

Tiny bells chime –  oh, they dance, oh, they sing – with such great joy. To the stook is tethered a secret. A gift.

Sunlight flashes on the sickles as they fall.

The golden son is awoken.

©DJA 2020


From the Compendium of One Hundred Word Stories