The soldiers are marching again, with the heavy sound of drums quick to follow.
Everyone in the town who knows what is coming stays silent and tries to hide, praying that they won't stop here, in Woodson.
And it's every week now that they pick a new...
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Shuffling the scratchy water baskets held in my arms, I walk out of my tiny house alone.
Just a mile away, there is a well where all of the ladies in my regional division gather to collect their days' water. Light fills up the sky, its dim light shining on our faces. Women are squinting up at the unforgiving sun, including my own two discerning orbs.
In the middle of summer, all of us are always outside doing something, whether it is trying to gather crops for food, or being forced to beg others to share.
It is still early in the morning, so I start my day by weaving through the dry and tall reeds that grow in this area, immediately recognizing a rough, clamorous sound edging nearer to the field.
The soldiers are marching again, with the heavy sound of drums quick to follow.
But for now the sound is far, far away.
Distant.
Even so, it seems that every woman in the town who knows what is coming stays silent, trying to hide the obvious fear on their faces. They are praying that the marching wouldn't stop here, in Woodson.
Because it is every week now that our Nation picks a town to grab our boys for the draft.
Before, being a soldier was considered volunteer work, but now people are scarce; The draft is mandatory for men seventeen and older. Ever since the war started, the government of Nation started depleting and rationing the resources of food and water.
A war over forests and land - a war over resources.
The sun beats down on my linen clad back, and the old dress I'm wearing weighs me down when I walk.
It is heavy, itchy, and highly uncomfortable. In fact, the only thing holding the strings of blue fabric together right now are the mismatched, hand-sewed patches that I wove myself using a tree needle.
Trying to wipe my dark hair out of my face with my shoulder, I huff as I march - I am not in shape. No doubt my face is red from the heat right now, shining clearly through my pale cheeks.
But I do what I can.
Sighing, I lift the two containers dutifully higher up on my hips to balance their weight. By now you'd think that I am used to it, used to working so hard like this.
It's been years, but... I still feel as helpless as I look.
The beat of the drums becomes louder, and I decide to ignore it for now.
As I reach the watering well, I spot the usual girls out and about doing their thing with eyes squinting from the daylight. In the distance amidst all of the activity is a familiar face.
