(Copyright: Björn Rudberg)
My family farmed this land for generations. My great-great-grandfather cleared the first terrace and built the first wall; his son leveled the second, piled more stone. So it went, down to me.
I was too good to bury my hands in dirt; I moved to the city to seek fame as an artist. Broke, I took a job painting bridges and lived my life making money, not art.
I returned to the land of my fathers and began building a studio. Pain introduced me to drugs. Now, I’ll never finish my studio or paint my pretty pictures.
And my body will be buried in the dirt.
(Written for Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. January 24, 2014.)