Submitted into Contest #98 in response to: Set your story on (or in) a winding river.... view prompt



The glow of the flashes in the sky announced the gale.

 Along with the thugs, they swept the moonlight as well as the brilliance of the loyal stars, silencing all thoughts in favor of the gray clouds.

 The silence became ambrosia, intoxicating the clouds, which were so drunk, they could only lie down, shedding their tears, which, little by little, were linked to their neighbor, forming liquid lagoons to lose sight of.

 Leaving the overwhelming inertia of the silent sobriety, the ponds became stifled, running agitated.

 Suddenly, and no more than suddenly, his fury from her could release stones so immense that they flew into the air, with the lightness of a lost petal in a cyclone.

 One of those rocks rolled relentlessly towards the entrance passage of the upper gallery of the gold mine a few meters away from those waters of the newly formed river, breaking the monotony of the unrepentant flow of water with the Tiberius of the meeting of two Massifs unbreakable by the force of time.

 That, nor any time does not pass in vain.

 Even more so for the general manager, Don Pablo, a middle-aged man whose thirty years of his life had been dedicated to the mine, where he was born by the work of a dynamite exploded out of time.

 - a scare! - diagnose the other gaunt-faced miners as the darkness of the galleries became eternal.

 - It had to be - commented those resigned to carry that darkness on their backs eaten away by the weight of time - that tyrant, that dictator.

 Whatever it is, the manager had a routine of making rounds in the galleries of that mine.

 -I only drowsy if I see that everything is in order, that my miners are fine, that nothing bad has happened - said the manager, puffing up his chest like a fighting cock.

 However, and solely because of that storm, nothing was right, because the elevators were not working, the mouth had been flooded as well as the galleries - the ones that still kept night shift workers inside.

 -      what happened ? What has happened? - Don Pablo questioned, over and over again, between cigarettes, the one that was smoked uses to calm the afflicted nerves.

 - that rock! How do we remove it to lead to the corridors? also, what will be the status of the imprisoned miners? - He questioned, immersed in the anguish of the moment.

 - There is a narrow chimney outside, where you can reach the central gallery - I illuminate the lookout - very narrow. I think, since you are skinny, you could penetrate.

 -      Sure ! The inactivated chimney, which no miner uses. That's. Bring a rope and a flashlight. Inside right away.

 The manager brought his boots without forgetting the lamp on the helmet.

 He stubbed out the last cigarette.

 And he went to the fireplace, at the top of the central gallery, next to his assistant, a skinny one just like him, whom he called an ayuco, because he was an assistant.

 - I'll hold the rope for him. Get off first.

 -     Well.

 Don Pablo descended about three meters down the tower dirty with soot from years and years of having worked and that now harbored cobwebs and worms.

 His face, black with charcoal, was barely visible without the light bulb.

 Still, his foot touched the ground soft as silt.

 The assistant followed him.

 And they felt a thick, sticky cole liquid creep up his feet, very quickly.

 -Don Pablo, offended , looked for the reflector on his helmet, pointed at the floor.

 With his heart in his hand, he screamed:

 -You have to enter the tunnel! - Pulling the chubby assistant , straining his legs to counteract the porridge now at the height of his trembling knees.

-  As an assistant, I was wiping the sweat with the sleeve of my shirt that had once been pink.

 "We're going backwards!" Observed the Assistant, extending his hand to the manager, illusively forward.

 - Give me your hand! - the manager hooted, seeing that the Assistant had mud on his thigh.

 Ahead was a large rock, where they could stand.

 -You have to go to that rock!, The manager raged, repeating:

- Lord, help me, please, as there are about six steps to go, and the porridge already covered the navel.

 At that moment, the chubby helper's hand detached from Don Pablo's hand.

 He immediately peeked back.

 His brown hair was sinking into the mud.

 Going back, Don Pablo pulled the Helper by his armpits, screaming from the immense weight.

 - help! - He was screaming - use your feet!

 And I was sinking, feeling a lot of pain, muttering:

 -     Muscle cramp….

 " Shit, right now?" Hit the floor with your foot!

 I hit .

 -Lean on my shoulder! I'm going to take you.

 Eyes closed in pain, the Helper wrapped his arms around the manager.

 -Help with your healthy foot!

 And he wanted to jump, but his body was sinking into the mud.

 - Wow, I said with a goodbye tear in his eyes.

 -Ugly? He yelled indignantly, we're coming! And Don Pablo, grabbing his waist with his arm, led him toward the rock.

 - I go up first, you hold onto the rock.

 Now, you have to go up, come on! Help with your arms, on the count of one, two and three!

 And I went up.

 - thanks! He was crying, kissing her hands and Don Pablo's face.

 -Enough, bro. I did nothing but my obligation.

 - do you hear that?

 - a voice. As a miner, for sure.

 "Where are they?" Don Pablo yelled.

 - In the tunnel- answered the voice somewhat hopeful on the one hand and somewhat lost, on the other.

 "We must save the miners!" Exclaimed the Assistant, staring at the manager.

 - They must be like us!

 The manager, sprawled on the rock, was staring up at the roof.

 - do you listen me? - I inquired seeing it static ("interfect?")

 - Don't you hear that voice?

 - voice? - Placing his ear on the rock that served as a wall.

 And the rock seemed to speak, moving its curves and protrusions, affirming and denying its very essence, giving hope for what had no value.

 -Look, boss!, Taking his leg out of the mud, which was approaching his waist.

 - We have not gotten rid of, have we? Observed the chief, seeing the damn mazamorra continue to cover everything, even the seams of those pants.

 And with a tear that insisted on falling from his eye, he said it between sobs:

 1. She gave me, on my birthday, pulling my pants over the porridge that covered them.

 I was looking for work.

 And she gave me my pants to give me a fortune.

 I've been doling it out all these years.


 It's been eight years since she gave it to me, when we were playing eternal love.

 She did not believe that this day she would come to her.

 They recognized each other with their clasping hands.

 The Helper could only say:

 - I am very grateful - with the porridge covering their face

June 14, 2021 19:43

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Sandra Claros
22:35 Jun 24, 2021

Thank you. I think that is so boring to talk only about me, because me can be you, he, she,, anyone!


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Moriah Passero
14:03 Jun 24, 2021

Very good story! You put hyphens before some quotes, and if that was on propose or not, I don't know. I also observed that you changed the Point Of View from third person to first person a few times. Other than that, it was a great story! Good job!


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