Flash Fiction- Harvest Time

Everyone usually loves this time of year when the leaves change and the sun begins to set sooner. I am not like the others in that reguard. For I know what comes when the weather changes. Harvest time.

Harvest time is a time honored tradition in our village that dates back further than anyone can remember. Each year it is the same. On the last warm day, before the winter is truly upon us it happens.

All of the eldest males of each family have the privilege of electing a woman. Woman is a loose term because last year the winning woman was only 9 years old. They would elect one woman from their family to be presented at the harvest. Like every year the women would line up in a row. Their names would be placed in a sorting hat. That very hat is so old now that I dare say it could no longer keep any head warm during winter.

Once the chief elder pulls a name, a sigh of relief is heard from all of the other women. They join their families in the crowd and grab their utensils.

That is when the chief elder will give the same speech that has been said by every chief elder before him. Many eager villagers begin to sharpen their knives as they listen to the words that every villager has memorized. 

They wait for the words to be said and then each and every villager closes in on the chosen woman. Even the smallest of the children have brought something sharp with them. For until they can eat, everyone must have their turn.

This harvest will be the same and so will be the ones to come. But this year will be my last Harvest Time for my name has been pulled from the dusty old sorting hat.