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Cotton





Cotton





“They failed. All dried up and withered. Nothing I can do. Old Sam, dressed in his rough denim field clothes, slumped into the wicker bottomed chair, and brought his weathered hands to his face." Through his fingers he pondered the simple roughhewn pine flooring. “Maw,” he said. “All the cotton in the south field dried up. Dead. Not a bole to be seen. All them plants are dead. Weevils got to ‘em.”

Maw didn’t answer.

“By Sunday, them damn weevils ‘ll be in the north field. Won’t make a dime this year.” He didn’t cry. Real men don’t cry, especially the men in Lawrence County, Alabama, but his slumped figure told the story. 1937 wasn’t a good year. 1938 would be worse.



David Alan Owens


David Alan Owens is a writer, mentor, and teacher
He lives in Tennessee with his wife Ann and their Boston Terrier Mayla.

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1 Comments

  1. Sturdy fiction from a master. Ariel is growing.

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