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  • Writer's pictureLeon de Leeuw

This year's harvest

Petko wiped a fly from his wrist as he sat on the porch. He had a good harvest this year and overlooked the bare fields. Today’s village celebration would mark the end of this year’s harvest. Autumn was around the corner. And then winter would blow its freezing wind over the sleeping fields. It had been a few months of hard labour, to be interrupted only by the village celebration. Right after it would be time for Petko to grab his axe from the shed, to break his back on the tough task of chopping piles of wood. They’d be stacked up neatly. And as they’d be sun-dried in a few weeks or so, Petko would enjoy the crackling sound of wood in front of the fireplace. Surrounded by the same friends he had a good harvest with. The village life was hard but had its moments of pure bliss. Petko poured himself another glass, drained it down and put on his black leather cap. As he shut the fence behind him, he walked down the gravel path towards the village square. As he got closer, he heard festive music. He closed his jacket as the first autumn breeze swept along the narrow path.

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