Turning Point

By Natan Feingold

In a two-season book, Yongzheng's family live from crop growing. Already undergoing a plight, a swarm of locusts lick their barn by double-ruining harvest. Ever since, the father misbelieves the fields. After gripping a chance at the bank, both father and mother are slain. Yongzheng, six-year-old, is the only witness, but trauma patches the mouth. An enigma arouses about how to nail the criminals.
At twenty, with the childhood no one would wish, Yongzheng craves for a noticeable family. The young man pulls through prejudice across university. And rolling up sleeves, founds the Zheng Computers. But collapses when beholding the wife and daughter give last breath at a car crash. The event evolutes to severe depression. In the end, the man changes forever, as he meets real joy.
The novella mingles the pain of a curse and finally shows the path to a glad new beginning. It’s an emotional family drama. Scenes are thrilling, analogies mind-feeding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781794818200

Book preview

Turning Point

Turning Point

Natan Feingold

To my God, my lovely wife and my son, thank you.

Table of Contents

Turning Point

Season One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Season Two

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

The Author

Season One

Chapter 1

The anonymous hamlet in Leshan, southwest China had just darkened. As quiet as a pond, was the most silent place a human could recline the head. Now and then, villagers heard howls across the night. And the morning brought a different scenario. Living bush stood around the homes. Tight paths here and there, the place looked half like a forest and half like a savannah, also half a mountainous land and half a flat land.

Day and night villagers drove their lives as untroubled as skybirds. The trees, the grass, the sand, the birds and the insects distinguished the setting. The hamlet smelled of mud with each breath, being the landmarks, the narrow-crossing water streams and sole ponds.

Out of urban features, as if belonging another country, farming equipment roared downhill to the plains, a light walk away from the homes. Villagers woke up to massacre their bodies on crop growing, which fed stores in the city. While motor vehicles were highly rare, seasonally retailers drove to the hamlet after beans, soya, maize and rice.

The hamlet nurtured Yongzheng, a boy whose name, the father gave in tribute to Yongzheng Emperor. With little height, the boy hid behind the bush. The voice, though, cut miles across the wind.

Yongzheng’s family house wasn’t beyond a little hut, made out of bamboo and thatch; the yard, the tiniest. The floor and the wall inside the hut were finished with clay, which made the hut cozy for winter evenings. They kept the hut closed around the clock, unless wanted to unveil their hardship. Dave, an old donkey, had been serving the family for so long before Yongzheng was born.

Two hours after the family returned from the fields, Yingtai, Yongzheng’s mother, stretched out under the hut shadow. Meanwhile, Yongzheng played around with the wood made toys.

Yongzheng, said Yingtai. She held a thin stick and went on beating the ground. You must stop now.

Yes, mother. Yongzheng lifted the buttocks off the ground and made-as-if.

Yingtai, married at seventeen, her husband looked like an uncle and her kid like the younger brother. Anger was for the Englishman to see. Bees buzzing one another sounded much louder than her voice as she enforced commands over the beloved on. Deep inside she tolerated the childishness the kid did.

You heard me say can’t take your toys to the farm tomorrow, heh? Yingtai rose up. You get inside now.

I’m going. Yongzheng yawned as he walked to bed. How about father?

He won’t recline until he’s sacked the seeds we’re taking in the morning.

Crack of dawn fired the family off the hut. The weather snowed as much as to breed penguins at that peak of winter. In spite of the hardship, Chao, Yongzheng’s father applied care on his day-to-day needs. He treated the tools, before and after work, while Yingtai took a swift bath and fed the kid.

Walking down to the fields, poor kid viewed the neighbors as if had stolen their luck. With cracks in the body, husband and wife reaped nothing more than to endure. Impaired facilities hampered the aspiration to broaden their fields towards the bush.

Oppressed life had murdered pleasure of dialogue between husband and wife, just the same as intimacy had gone stale. As they walked downhill to the fields, husband in front pulling Dave, Yongzheng riding him and Yingtai in the back, meant no longer a routine, but family culture. Moisture bathed their feet along the squeezing paths, and grass mopped them. Yongzheng grew up enslaved in that life unfairness.

The family accepted surviving by the meager harvest the fields provided; life course unleashed a critical plight. Certain morning, husband and wife thanked for the reaping day, the goal their hands had labored for. Chao left the bed first and went outside. Grain by grain, the calloused hands chose the best seeds to sow again, as they reaped maize.

Similar to a gazelle waiting for death in custody, Chao had succumbed to the restrictions. Despite the vigorous man he looked, agriculture was the craft he trusted all his hopes, praying the meager fields provided his family with the necessary provision. If any gods existed, hopefully would uphold them.

Yingtai woke up some time later. She stood by the hut, like a thief. Chao shouldn’t notice she watched him with a knot in the heart. She nodded disapprovingly, resenting unfair life. The man I married is a rock. Rustic face rebuilt