Fred Aiken Writing

Eos blinks again. A pink and yellow hue blankets the sky.

In the soft, dew-mist hours of morning, a hushed urgency stirred him awake. Raul, the seasoned picker with calloused hands and a tired smile, emerged from the tattered canvas tent he called home. The aroma of jasmine and grass filled the air. While the world savored the drink of gods, Raul toiled for its creation, destined to remain anonymous.

The sun broke through the dense foliage, casting a mandala of shadows over the wild fields that seemed to go on forever. Raul joined the steady rhythm of his fellow laborers, each step a choreographed dance between tree and basket. A determined, practiced rhythm developed between the trees as he picked the coffee cherries. A song he heard each morning. The foliage loomed above, casting a perpetual twilight on the workers below.

Through the monotony, Raul’s mind wandered. He dreamed of a life beyond the fields, a life where the toil of harvest was replaced by the joys of harvest. Looking down at his basket of wild rouge, he wondered what the end result would taste like. He contemplated pocketing a few cherries himself, but quickly pushed the thought away since he was paid by the weight of his basket at the end of the day. He could not afford even one cherry to be missing, despite his curiosity.

As the day wore on, Raul’s fingers moved with practiced ease. He moved up the hill, past the mist, further and further into the wild foliage. And then he smiled.