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Charlie Lathe

The Traveler with the
Long, Dragging Beard

Lizberh lit a candle to fend off the velvet darkness that roamed the
land. Her waxen blade, tipped with silent dancing orange, would have to
suffice until the sun, seeming at once lazy to the sleepless and sleepless to
the lazy, yawned, stretched, and stood, revealing to Lizberh her meager
garden of grapes, carrots, and peppers. These crops she would pick,
place upon a plate, and set on her brother's nightstand, awaiting his
waking. Such was the routine Lizberh had followed for two years, after
the death of her parents, who had been victims of a plague which had
passed through the town, leaving alive only specks of once large families.
Motivation, too, had been claimed, and the cracked homes, shriveled
vegetation, and constantly downcast eyes of the withered townsfolk
were its marker. Lizbeths nimble-footed spirit, however, had somehow
dodged all daggers, and planted her a daisy, pink as her smiling cheeks,
in the center of that stone hamlet.

"Ah, there you are;' she said in a voice as warm as the sun to
which she spoke. Her pecan eyes squinted as the rays found her. Blow-
ing out her candle, she made a basket out of her apron, dropped within
it her bounty, and looked round, taking in the scene of the new day. A
breeze blew, setting the leaves of the distant woods a-chatter and the
remaining arms of the windmill a-spin, groaning like the bones of an
antique man.

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