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  • Writer's pictureJon Huber

The Son of Donovan

Hirold Gerdy had no friends. He lived in a small village made completely of glass. A tall man who walked with a hunch. His eyes they bugged, his ears they wandered, and not a hat in the whole town would fit his head.


Collecting supplies from the shops in the village, Hirold was never seen empty handed. A sack on his back and a pep in his heels. Always pleasant and willing to help, a delicate bow, with a smile that hung from the side of his face.


But the people of the town never invited him for dinner, no matter how large or flavor the favor. He would quickly walk the shiny streets, his glass shoes clicking as he went. In the field behind his home he spent his time in the shade, alone.


His knees were chapped from long hard days, his back it ached, his wrists they cracked. Hirold Gerdy spent his time gathering stones, and rocks, and twine. Under the curious eye of the sun, he built a bridge that went nowhere and belonged to no one.


The townsfolk could see his heap from the village, and estranged themselves from the topic with vile. Oh how Hirold did love his rock pile. One wheelbarrow at a time he gathered the earth and made a great heap.


Hirold Gerdy wanted no friends, as he feared that the bridge would never find end. No fun, no friends, no fear, no fuss, he wandered the fields, oblivious. Spare time was spent, hunched over and bent, while his bridge began to grow.


What would become of his mound? They joked in hushed manners. Befriend him they couldn’t, for fear of their class, and that their world would break as if made of glass.


Nearly halfway done but some seasons long gone. The villagers gathered with concern in their minds and agreed that Hirold’s bridge go no further. Thumping and stomping their little glass shoes, they marched down to the bridge, to deliver the news.


Not only with words, but with hammers and swords they shattered the structure right into fine dust. Hirold Gerdy returned to the rubble and asked the town folk if he was in trouble.


No trouble, no trouble, no trouble he found, but his bridge lie ankle high, smashed and shattered on the ground.


What would Hirold do now? Was this the end for the man with no friends? No one visited or stopped in for tea, no remorse or guilt, or apology. But Hirold was a man not easily thwarted, he collected his tools and headed to town.


With his head held high, looking folks in the eye, he visited each store but all seemed to be closed. Now Hirold was strange with an ill-shapen head, but he was not daft, he hurried on home to start his new project.


He knew a bridge made of glass he could not, so he studied and planned and picked a new spot. A new material would have to suffice, so he built his bridge out of sacrifice.

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