The Well


By Angelo Marcos

She limped along trying to ignore the searing pain in her shin. The blood had congealed, so she was no longer bleeding.

She used a branch as a walking stick, leaning onto it so as not to aggravate the wound.

The bucket she carried seemed to grow heavier, feeling after a time as though it were filled with boulders. She had twice felt as though her shoulder had dislocated.

The merciless sun beat down, reminding her of the thirsty children awaiting her return.

She’d walked two miles.

Two more to go.


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