The pick struck the earth, and the sweat fell. Worn and tired and dying. Pick. Sweat. Sun. Hot sun. Pick. Hit the earth. Pick. Strike the earth. Dig. Deeper. Sun. Hot. Dead.
The slave fell down dead. He didn’t even know he’d died. He didn’t have one passing memory of his life flash before his eyes. He just lifted his pick and fell down dead, and it fell there beside him. The pick buried itself into the earth beside him, and he too was buried, a worn out tool.
And in the night, that dark, moonless night, they came chanting and singing. They surrounded that shallow grave and spoke strange words over him. He did not remember dying. He did not remember waking up again.
His hands crushed their throats. Guns blazing. Burning lead passing through him. Their song in his ear. Crush throat. Hands on neck. Crush throat. Dead. Dead. All dead.
They were all dead, and the song ended. Sleep.
Tale Told 