The Flesh Is Not Weak
Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
Copyright 2011 Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
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She sat in a chair by her shack, gnarled fingers like small brown roots sticking out of a towel wrapped around her hands to keep them warm, eyes on one of the two paths that led to her shack, one trodden so much it was mud, the other a path of short grass weaving through pine and birch trees. Soon the girl would come running along the well-traveled trail, shoes crunching down on the frozen mud and cracking the ice on tiny puddles. It was going to be a very cold and wet winter, just like last year.