You're sitting on bricks stacked haphazardly upon one another in the heat of the August sun.

The place is here, the time is now.

Behind you, six healthy oxen graze in a field of bright green grass.

Up the road, a ways down, dust billows around a small wagon pulled by one lame donkey.

A bestial creature slumps under a deteriorating straw hat, raw and swollen knuckles gripping the reins loosely.

Between breathes of hot spiced air, the single donkey brays softly.

Closer now, smells of rotting carcasses and unhygienic waste permeates your property.

Closer now, wagon wheels creak, rolling in accordance with the divots of the frequently traveled dirt  road. 

Closer now, a beastly snout pokes from the shadows cast by the brim of the ravaged straw hat.

You shift your weight uncomfortably; thick air fills your lungs with angst.

Hard stones beneath you jab and probe at your legs and buttock.

Wiping torrents of sweat off your brow you call out to the brute:

It turns towards you slowly, yanking at the sleeve of it's tattered coat.

The Ventana Cave lies just above the savage's shoulders and just below the brim of it's hat.

It drops down into the dirt.

The beast lurches around to the backside of the wagon, delving into it and retrieving a small parcel.

Snout pointed towards the ground, it schlepps towards the opening of your gate.

You rise from your perch immediately, stumbling on bricks as they clamber to the base of the pile.

You demand to know what the creature wants, why he is here.

It takes another step, and one more.

You raise your voice and order the figure to stop where it stands.

It takes another step, and two more.

You raise your arm with brick in hand, and threaten the being.

It takes another step, and three more.

A brick in each hand, you hurl them at the stranger, repeating this until you can no longer breathe.

Chest heaving and gasping for air, you fall onto your back.

Awake, you find the parcel contains your grandfathers old pocket watch.

Attached to the watch is a death certificate.

Your grandfather remained your last living kin.

You're laying on your back in the heat of the August sun.

The place is here, the time is now.

Behind you lies a field of bright green grass.

Down the road, a ways away, dust billows around a small wagon pulled by six energetic oxen.

A charming man sits under a tightly woven straw hat, gloved hands gripping the reins tightly and with purpose.

In the wagon, a donkey with a bloody blow to his head lies atop a pile of bricks stacked haphazardly upon one another.