It was late summer and a refreshing summer breeze gently blew. The Roma family sat near a clearing at the roadside, their piebald pony munching grass as they themselves ate breakfast. They did not hear the approach of the SS patrol from the forest, nor expect the burst of automatic fire. They could not know of the burning of their wagon home, or that their precious pony would become the property of a Ukrainian peasant after the beast had bolted. No more laughter or music would flow from their campfires, nor would any ever again lovingly call their names.
(99 Words)
Padre
Padre's Ramblings 
Wow, that was unexpected!
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That hits. My grandfather spent much time with the Roma; he bred and traded horses. The piebald cob was always his favourite, otherwise known as the gipsy cob
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Dark, and yet many of the “unremembered” are held in such a place, waiting for storytellers to do the remembering. The way you narrate the story with this phrase really hit me emotionally: “They could not know of the burning…” They could not know. So for their injustice, we remember. Well done. Thanks for joining us at the Ranch!
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