I reckon that God’s just punishing us. Not sure what we did, but I’m pretty sure whatever it was, it made Him mad. Those government men said it was because we didn’t manage our land properly; said we needed to practice soil conservation. Sure don’t know how we can do that…We can’t get nothing’ to grow!
Frank got up and decided he needed to make sure he could find his way from the barn to the house the next time the blizzard comes. Last week, he got lost between the chicken pen and the house. I asked him why he was just puttin’ up one to the barn. Told me it was because there wasn’t enough wire left to do both. Maybe he should stay away from the chicken pen.
Frank’s worried about this year’s crop. Really, can’t even call it that since it has just about blown away. Me, I’m not worried ‘cause things can’t get any worse. Well, maybe that is not so ‘cause I am expectin’ again. Frank doesn’t realize we’re beaten yet. He still has hope. Hope however is sparse in my heart since Lucy was born. Lucille was a beautiful angel with golden hair that hung in ringlets around her tiny heart-shaped face. She was such a good baby. God took her back a few months ago. Maybe she was just too pretty to waste here in this dreadful, dusty, dirty place.
We thought everything would be alright; Lucy gave us hope. It wasn’t ‘til I realized she never cried that I knew something’ was wrong. The Doc told us to make sure we kept her cradle covered when the blizzards rolled in, but it was so hot. We were roastin’ in the cabin and puttin’ her inside a tent seemed like a real bad thing to do. I just held on to her and sang while the wind pushed sand and dust through all of the nooks and crannies. She never even coughed, not once.
Then one day, she started to look funny. I could hear her breath and feel the gurgle in her chest while she worked to suck in air. My beautiful Lucy died a couple weeks later. Just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. We couldn’t even bury her until a week later ‘cause one of the biggest blizzards ever blew. I stopped prayin’ about the same time. Seems like a real waste of my time. He is either not listening or there are just too many people askin’ for help. I suppose we can only rely on ourselves.
On account of this new babe, I was thinking real hard about what it would take to keep the dust out. Emma, my neighbor used flour paste on the walls in the cracks and around the windows. I have a couple of bags of flour, but I thought I might need them if we have another bad harvest. Didn’t want to waste them, but I am thinking maybe I’ll go ahead and use them: give this new babe a chance. I also bought a muslin sheet. Frank thinks I am crazy for spending so much money, but I am going to use it to make a tent around the cradle just like the Doc said. This time I’ll do it no matter how hot it is. Thinkin’ I’ll wet them before I hang them up. They might work better that way.
Frank thinks I am really fragile since Lucy passed. He tries not to talk to me about things; thinks I’m gonna break. I know he is tryin’ not to let me know how bad things are, but I know. Suppose I should tell him about this new babe. Poor Frank, it will just be another mouth for him to feed. Maybe he‘ll be happy. I’ll tell him at dinner.
Not much for dinner. Still have a jack rabbit I can turn into stew. Probably not too bad tasting, skinned him yesterday. Those damn things, they’re pesky critters. I feel sorry for them though. They’re just as hungry and as we are. Nothin’ left for them to eat. At least they know when to leave. I guess we’re dumber than the jack rabbits.
I wonder when we’ll get a chance at that new deal President‘s been talkin‘ about? Maybe they’ll help us move to California. I hear it is so beautiful there: it actually rains. ‘Course Frank will probably want to stay put. This was his Daddy’s land. But rain, maybe he’d like to feel the rain hit his cheeks again while he’s looking up into those beautiful, fluffy white clouds. It sounds like heaven. Maybe Lucy is there.
I can hear Frank now, he is yellin’ and runnin’ towards the cabin. The black dust is coming…
The End
Bio: Leslie is a 44-year-old full-time student at OSU and resides in Albany, Oregon. She is studying English and Education and hope to teach writing to children after obtaining her Bachelor’s Degree and teaching certificate.
Writers: Seeking The Truth Of Experience
August 31, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazetteImage via Wikipedia
When we writers write, we are doing more than just stringing words together. We are doing nothing less than recording what it is to be human. We are trying to capture life. This is an honorable task.
So, if you are a writer, be proud of being a writer. No matter at what level of skill you are at, what you are doing is important.
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Hello, my brother and sister readers and writers. Hello, students at Pitt and CMU. This is the Old Soldier blogging near the University of Pittsburgh.
It’s around 9:30 PM and the Old Soldier is stretched out on the sofa, jotting in a notebook. The television is on, tuned to Public Television. A show is on about the beginning of the human species. That’s how I got the idea that writers record what it is to be human.
Let this blog be your home for writing and all things flash fiction.