#source Pentecostwaite

[brimstone-cowboy]

It’s time to harvest the flax, and the sun is blazing down on your field, blazing down on you. It’s far too hot today to take on work this hard, but it must be done. From flax comes linen, a valuable textile.

“Who is to see? Who is to care?” 

And so you do. You are alone.

Time grinds by, the sun grows higher, you bend low, you pull flax. You sweat, your naked limbs ache, you bend low, you pull flax. Your muscles burn, your hands bleed, you bend low, you pull flax. 

You are utterly naked, covered in flax stalks and dirt. You feel an errant bead of sweat travel slowly down your shirtless chest and lodge in the muddy cup of your uncovered navel.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, and the flushing judge, apoplectic, opens his mouth to speak.