Work ’til I’m Sore.

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

The first gust of wind roars through the valley. The apples and apricots, with tender green shoots hinting at the arrival of spring, shake in the breeze. There was no time to blossom. There would be no time to pick the fruit.

Illya sat under one of the apple trees in the orchard. With his back resting against the cold bark, he peered into his orchard. Organized and peaceful.

He drew his knees into his chest. He reached for a leatherbound journal and wrote. He recalled never not seeing the blossoms at this point in spring. He started transcribing the tranquility of the orchard but gave that up with a strikethrough of his pen across every adjective he wrote. These are trees, he thought. They grow. But they are not growing right now.

A thunderous crack comes from the distance. Kilometers away. Illya gets up and stares into the trees. He places a hand on the bark, grips it, feels the duff slide under his fingernails, and releases.

He walks out of the orchard onto the causeway where his car is parked. It’s an old light blue Volvo sedan. The door squeaks when he opens it. Artillery shakes the ground. It is time to leave.