Stephen Jackson

Fussin'

Clem was fussin’. Didn’t make no nevermind whether he wanted it or didn’t, when a foul mood struck him, he would start to fussin’. He had just spent a stone cold week in the snowy hilltops miles from the town, sifting and digging through ice cold water and frozen dirt and had never seen a wink of nugget. The people in town frequently laughed at his failed efforts in searching for gold, another week with not a flake to show for it wouldn’t change a thing.