Epitaph

Epitaph: Prologue

'This is the story of my Death.... and my Life afterwards.'

One of the poorest regions of Andalusia, a tiny village only known under the name of 'Sierro', has never witnessed a disaster more tremendous then the one in the night of july the 6th 1786. 

It's barely bright enough for him to see the contour of their thatched roof. The sun hasn't yet risen, but his biological clock forces him to be awake at this ungodly hour. Rubbing his sleep deprived eyes, carefully crawling down the shaky old ladder, jumping, naked feet landing on soft muddy earth. ''Cold...'' he thinks to himself silently, digging his toes into cool, moist dirt. Early in the morning is the best time to works on the fields. Once the merciless fire-ball named sun awakes, the peaceful  plantations become a fiery sea from hell, and hard-working farmers become the slaves of their own earthly existence.           

Tabacco is the villagers main income resource. After harvest time the village is practically dead, for most folks travel to other towns and villages selling and trading their goods. The work is hard and the payment so low, that death by starvation can be just prevented. But sustaining a family? Most of the time he gives his payment to his mother, a needlewoman with poor health, who he loves so dearly, whilst having given up on his father a long time ago.  

His name is Santiago. Santiago, like the one of the Twleve Apostles of Jesus, like the one first to be martyred. Maybe that was already going to be an indice for the coming future. Santiago is me, me from a long time ago, me from another life...

(Authors note: Dear lovely reader, 

Thank you for finishing the prologue of my first story 'Epitaph' ! If you notice any mistakes, in grammar or with regards to content, please let me know. I'm also always open to and happy about feedback !                                                                                    

Have a wonderful and and happy Reading :)

Love, Tina )