Keegan Post

The Delivery

It was a hot day indeed for Arthur Fennec. Too hot for his liking, yet it was a heat he was well acquainted with. Dry, and without a lick of wind. The Chief had been gracious enough to provide with him an extra water skin for the journey, but he had politely declined. The village needed it more than he did, after all. Behind him, the rattling of his wooden wagon was all he had to fill the deafening silence of the road. Although he had no lack of companions in the village, it was well known that Arthur Fennec turned his nose up at the thought of assistance, though many had offered. Too proud to accept help, some would say. Sucking up to the Chief, others would say. It was neither of those, so the rumors brought a half-smirk to his lips. He was determined to make his rounds alone and in silence, save for the wheels. He had hoped to one day find a replacement for the stiff plastic wheels that scraped across the asphalt. Once, he tried binding some old leather around the tire, but it never took. Maybe it’s for the better, Arthur thought. I might go mad if I had to make these journeys in complete silence. He was a dreadful singer, but a decent whistler. The whistling made his lips dry, though, and they hurt when they cracked.