The Bone Traders - Extract for the day

...a quick extract from The Bone Traders...have a great weekend.

The sun is now a white, hostile orb; iris burning.

Welcome to the town that your God, Law, Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.

An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power to light a bulb or two.

A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.

A small Church offers its imperfect steeple to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare. There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight off metal.

At the far end of the only street, outside a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.

Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom, Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness.  It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.

Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on his heels.

“Well?” Reverend Dickinson asks the midwife that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.

The woman giving birth again screams. She is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.

The midwife, who is in her late sixties, glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”

“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his response.

The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.

“I need light. Move away from the window.”

The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.

The midwife works, her heavy face sweating profusely.

A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and out of.

“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson, still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles. 

“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push, Mary!  I can see the head!”

There is another scream and the tension shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.

The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”

Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels. “It’s a what? Tell me.”

(....Well, I'm not going to give it ALL away now, am I? Have a Great Easter.)