edited 6/25
1974: A dewy dawn swept by, quietly floating westward, changing the world from desert night to day, from shadows and dark pools to valleys of light. He found a rutted dirt road going north or thereabouts. He stopped, listening, drank some water from his canteen but did so sparingly. The water and the dark tasted good, the desert air was clean, fresh: he knew its smell.” He walked on for about another fifteen minutes. It grew lighter -- What was that? Over there? Birds? Crows cawing and taking flight. And? In the light of early morning the road ended in a pile of what? Garbage? Plastic bags? Bodies? As he neared, it was the smell that defined what he saw. Oh god -- There was furtive movement to his right. He ducked down behind an outcropping of rock. But, it was just coyotes. There were two, maybe, three of the critters. They were skinny runts but smart and hungry. He picked up a couple of good throwing rocks. He moved off the road taking a parallel course to his target. He edged closer to the garbage piles, eventually to look down on the sight from a slight scrub-covered rise. The dead people were piled in a heap. Maybe they’d been pushed from a truck, dumped? There were plastic bags, too. Some were torn open. Clothing? Shit, wetbacks by description, by the fact that they were dead in the desert -- in a pile. There were no cars or trucks in sight -- Just the dead people. And the coyotes. And the circling carrion birds. Waiting -- The smell. He ripped open a plastic bag with clothes showing and immediately found a good coat that fit. It was better than what he had. It smelled better too. He took the coat. ‘Thank you,’ he said, softly to the dead people. He said this very slowly but did not look them. His curiosity compelled, he looked more closely: there were six or seven Mexicans. Human beings. Two children. Jesus. There were fat winter flies on mouths and eyes and noses and ears. The little girl was a toddler in almost-new clothing. He could see her small dark eyes, sunken, with no life in them. She looked sad, weary, broken-hearted -- Dead. They’d been dumped in the desert -- Like garbage. Got to go -- "Sorry." "'Lo siento.'” Marshall stood with his new coat clutched in one hand -- It wasn’t stealing. It was a trade. He put the new coat on -- it fit -- he looked around: The coyotes were just over a knoll and watching, waiting patiently. Marshall heard a bird shriek, not a crow, something else. A vulture? Out of sight there was a flapping of huge wings. He flinched, crouched instinctively, felt vulnerable. Man. Vultures. He studied the human beings on the ground, again: The bodies with nobody in them. There was no blood that he could see. Maybe the people had smothered in the heat, died in the back of a truck, maybe a U-Haul or something? He’d heard of such things. Then, the human coyotes, the men that brought them across the border dumped them -- got rid of the evidence. Maybe that was it? God: the risks the wetbacks took to cross the border. To get to America. To get to California. - from The Desert by Kevin O'Kendley Please give to Farmworker Justice: 1126 16th Street NW #270/ Washington DC 20036/ 202-293-5420
1 Comment
10/26/2018 07:11:33 pm
God has the power to make impossible things possible. You should not be surprised in the first place that all these events happened. If God can make all of these, then we can assume that He is also capable of helping us with the burdens we have been carrying ever since. All we need do is to ask for help! But for us to be worthy of what we will receive, we must know how to to follow His desires for us. We should have faith just like what He wants for us! Always follow what He wants for us!
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Kevin O'Kendley is the owner of Carbuncle Moon, and the author of all original material -- cartoons, blogs, shorts, essays, articles -- on the website (there has been a very limited editorial input in some of my work). All quoted sources are noted. I am responsible for all posts. The only blogs not time-dated are those advertising nonprofits. All nonprofits are vetted, investigated, though after the summer of 2018 my vetting has lapsed: (6/1/21).
Kevin O'Kendley: P.O. Box 172, Winterport, Maine, 04496, and 200 P Street, A-32, Sacramento, California, 95814, ksokendley@outlook.com. Technical help is provided by an evolving computer genius, my son, Conor O'Kendley: A good kid with a great heart who can be reached at P.O. Box 172, Winterport, Maine, 04496. (Conor is in the Navy now, a swabby) Photography provided by a visual artist, my daughter, Caitlin O'Kendley: a young woman with a beautiful soul. (Caitlin is in college now, a media-journalism student) If your nonprofit is advertised on this site and you wish to have it removed please contact me at the above listed snail-mail or email address or use the contact form on the website. If you download a blog, cartoon, a short story -- or for any other reason -- and wish to donate $ to this site, its author and technical support personnel, please send donations to above listed addresses payable to Kevin O'Kendley. My family and I could use the dinero. All cartoons, blogs, and short stories are for sale. Categories |