Poems, Prose, and Poppycock: January 2014

One day at Friday Night Bible Study, my friend was playing a song on the piano and singing. She commented to me that someone should write a story about that song some day. Wanting to please her I said, "Okay, I'll write a story for you." I didn't know what I was getting myself into.

I half forgot that I made that promise to her until another friend, who had been a part of the conversation, sent me a link to the song.

I listened to it casually, thinking I would write one of my silly short stories just to appease them, but as I listened closer, a picture began to form in my mind. I really liked the song and realized this story would not be the simple thing I planned on.

Here is the song, The Dust Bowl Dance, By Mumford and Sons. Give it a listen, and if you have time, read the story I wrote based on it and let me know what you think of the Dancing Dust.

(It is only seven short chapters, in case you are wondering.)

Dancing Dust

By Melody Beerbower

Dedicated to Mercy Olson and Parker Cornwell, who acquainted me with Mumford and Sons and suggested I write a story about their song, “The Dust Bowl Dance”. Without them, this story would never have been written.

Forward

The story you’re about to read is based off of Mumford and Sons’ “The Dust Bowl Dance”. There are hundreds of different opinions on what the song means and what secret message the artists were trying to convey through their skillfully woven lyrics. The debate can become quite heated as everyone believes their opinion is the true one.

It is my opinion that there can be many different interpretations, for the lyrics are intriguingly vague and evoke strong emotions. In this book, I have written my own interpretation of the young man and his troubles. I hope that this story enhances the song as the song does the story. And by the end, perhaps, you will not be able to think of the one without the other.

Prologue

The young man stands on the edge of his porch, his murky-blue eyes staring out over the barren fields abandoned to the drifting clouds of dust. The wind blows past, rustling his clothes, but bringing no relief--only endless dust. The dust has settled over him--on his clothes, on his hat, on his hair. It clings to his skin. Even his teeth grind on it as he tightens his jaw.

The town is dying. His mother is gone. His father is gone. All that's left is the land. But the lands is tired; it gave its best. There is nothing left for it to yield, for it too has given up fighting the dust.

The young man remains, forcing himself to stand straight and tall under the weight of his responsibilities. He must hold fast to what he has. There is no place for weakness. The dust destroys those who are weak. Like his father. Only the tighter clenching of his jaw and calloused hands, and the sudden brightening of his squinted eyes marks the ardent decision of the young man as he stands watching the dancing dust.

Chapter One

I’ve been kicked off my land at the age of sixteen--this land that I’ve worked alongside my father, clearing, plowing, planting, coaxing the tiny seeds to grow out of the dusty soil. We scraped our living from the ground. It was the only way of life my father knew. It is what he taught me.

If I do not have this land, I have nothing. This house that father built under Mama’s direction, nestled at the base of the hill—this house that I grew up in—this is where my dreams are stored. But it too is being taken away.

I know no other place to go. I have not traveled. All I know is my land and the town.

Day after day I’ve toiled here listening to my father’s constant refrain: “We can do this. We can make it through. Things will be better next year.” But each year the dust came wiping out our fields just as the wheat was turning ripe for harvest. Still father said, “Things will get better.”

I do not call this “better”. These fields of dying wheat. These broken fences. This barren land that I can no longer call my own.

Father use to say, “Take care of the ground, son, and it will take care of you. People have been abusing the land. That's what got us into this problem. We must keep planting. Keep planting so that with every field the wind has one less acre of dust to carry with it. Don't get discouraged. It will be better next year.”

We continued to plant, and each year the rain only fell long enough to temp us to hold on to hope. With each successive failure, however, my father’s “It will be better next year.” came more wistfully and with deeper longing.

I am not supposed to be here on this land, but I must retrieve something. It has to be here somewhere in this box of Mama’s old things. Ah, here it is. I take it out and look in the chamber. It’s loaded. Father gave this to Mama in case of emergency. Mama never used it. I slip it into my pocket. As I turn to leave something else in the box catches my eye. Mama’s old broach. I finger it remembering the last time she wore it—the night the tragedy happened.

Father and I were working in the fields when the wind began whipping about in small circles. I looked behind me and saw a wall of black clouds rising to the sky.

“Father, she’s a coming,” I shouted into the wind. He looked behind us, then grabbed my hand as if I were a little child, and we raced to the house. Father slammed the door behind us, but as we turned to close the shutters we both realized mama was not here.

Father wrenched open the door. I tried to follow him out, but he shoved me back. “Keep the door closed!” He race to the side yard where Mama had been hanging up clothes. I ran to the window to watch.

Mama knelt on the ground pressing a damp shirt over her mouth. Father whisked her into his arms, took five steps towards the house, and I could see no more. Darkness descended as suddenly as a candle is snuffed by the wind.

I waited in the darkness, listening to the howling wind until, faintly, I heard a noise at the door. Stumbling over the table in my attempted hast, I groped my way to the door and tugged. For a moment it remained stuck fast, and then it burst in with a gust of wind and dust. Father tumbled to the floor still clutching Mama in his arms. As stinging dust flew about the room, I struggled to shut the door against the wind. Finally Father stood, and together we forced it closed. Then we waited. We didn’t even bother to move. We just sat on the floor, Father once more cradling Mama in his arms.

We could not mark the passage of time. We could barely see through the haze of the dirt. Then, as quickly as it had come, the storm was swept away, and the sun came out once more to torment the thirsty ground.

Father left me home to clean up the house as best I might while he rushed Mama to the nearest hospital. I found Mama’s broach on the floor in the dust. I never saw her again.

Dust pneumonia. That’s what the doctors called it. Mama had died before Father even brought her into the house.

Father was never the same after that. He always looked haunted and weary. He had contracted a severe cough which he could not be rid of. He almost stopped planting the land.

It was now my turn to say, “Don’t worry, Father. Things will be better next year. We can make it through. Together.”

Two years went by. My fifteenth birthday came and went. The only thing that changed was my father and me. As my father weakened; I grew stronger. I was no longer battling the dust, yet I had not given in to it. We lived alongside each other, each going about his business as usual.

No longer did I say, “It will be better next year,” for I couldn’t even remember a time it had not been this way. I began to believe it would never change. That did not depress me. There was nothing I could do about it. I accepted it and moved on. I had hardened like the few acres of land we were no longer able to plow.

I kept working most of the fields, but money was tight, and we could not afford to plant them all. We were able to sell some of our wheat the year I turned fifteen. That restored Father’s pride in the land. He worked out in the fields all day and late into the evenings. All he lived for now was the land, so when they threatened to take it away, he had nothing else to live for.

I close the box and shove it back under the bed. As I step out the back door, the screen door jumps closed behind me on its springs, shutting me out of my house, cutting me off from all I once held dear.

Chapter Two

I walk along the street, cold steel thumping against my leg in the pocket of my overalls. I try not to look around me at the nearly deserted streets of town, at the boarded up buildings abandoned by those fleeing the dust. The people who remain are not here of their own accord; they are chained here by hope—a ruthless and false hope that whispers, “All will be well.” even as it drags them down into the pit and smothers them.

Nobody notices me as I pass. Nobody sees my twitching fingers and anxious glance. No one hears my thundering heart. A man walks by me.

Why does he not say hello? Why does he not ask how I am? If he simply smiled or commented on the weather perhaps it would turn me from my path.

He does not even glance in my direction. I continue walking, reliving in my mind the reason I have chosen this way.

I remember the day the Banker made a special trip out to our farm. It was hot and dusty, but they always were.

I was coming up from the field when he arrived in his car. It was painted a pretty cobalt blue, dulled by a layer of dust that even he could not prevent from settling. He entered the house followed by another man who works for him without even noticing me. I slipped up to the car. After walking around it a few times, I carefully printed my name across the hood in the dust.

W-i-l-l. Will. Not William or Wilbur or Willis, just Will. Like my Father.

I crept to the door to listen. I needn't have bothered. Their voices were loud enough to hear from the yard.

“This is the last time I’m warning you, Will. Pay me my money or next time I’m coming with the law.”

“I thought you were the law,” my Father said with a cold sneer that cut deep into the Banker’s fleshy hide.

“I’ll give you one week. Then I’m taking the land if I have to throw you from it.”

I heard steps retreating to the door. They were arrested by my Father's urgent voice. “Arthur, give me until harvest. I’ll sell the crop and give you the money. Surely you don’t need it before then.”

“Will, you aren’t the only one facing hard times. I need that money, and there is no guarantee that your crop is even going to make it to sell.”

“You can’t take my land from me. How am I going to live? What about my boy?”

“I’m sorry, Will, but that's not my problem.” The footsteps headed for the door again. I could pick out my father’s. He always walked as though he had lead weights tied to the bottom of his shoes. He would draw one foot slowly up, and then let it drop heavily to the floor, causing his work-shoes to clump rhythmically on any hard surface. I slipped around the corner of the house just as the door opened. The Banker and his man exited. The man descended the steps, but Father grabbed the Banker’s arm before he could follow.

“Arthur, please.” Father’s grip tightened convulsively on the Bankers forearm. “I’ve poured my sweat into this land. How can I let it go? Melissa is buried here.” Father stepped down a step from the porch so that he had to look up at the Banker. “You know when Melissa died, I almost did too. This land kept me going.” Father’s voice suddenly lowered, so I had to strain to catch his last hoarse plea: “Arthur, this land is all I’ve got left to live for.”

The Banker just shook his head. “You’ve got one week.” He climbed into his car and drove away never seeing me or my name printed in the dust.

Father stood on the porch and watched him leave, then he walked slowly into the house with his heavy tread.

I knew I had heard him wrong, or perhaps Father just had a slip of tongue. He meant to say ‘on’. This land was all he had left to live on. For he still had me, and wasn’t I worth living for?

I am almost there—just this long stone driveway to walk up. I didn’t know he lived in such a large house, but it doesn’t surprise me. When you live off of others’ hard work you can get the best of everything. One consolation is, no matter how rich he is, he can’t get rid of the dust. He has to deal with it the same as the rest of us. Although, I doubt he’s ever lost anyone to it.

The night the Banker left, another dust storm rolled in. It was not a very large one, at least it didn’t block out the light. My father sat in Mama’s old chair where he’d been sitting ever since the Banker left. His eyes were glazed, and I wondered what he was thinking. Suddenly he stood and called me over.

“Son,” he said laying a tough, wrinkled hand on my shoulder, “You must be good to the land. Take care of it, and it will take care of you.” I was startled. He hadn't spoken those words to me since Mama's death three years ago. He continued, “Don’t worry, son. It will be better next year.” He smiled, and though I had not seen his smile for many months, I could not return it. Something was wrong.

“Father...”

“Listen to me, son.” He had become grave very suddenly, and his hands tightened on my shoulders. “You must take care of the land; you must continue to plant.”

“But Father--”

“Listen to me! Your mother depends on us. We must take care of her.”

“Father please...” His fingers were digging into my shoulders. He wasn’t in his right mind. Though he looked at me, his gaze was far away and empty as if he were looking into a time long past.

“You must be very gentle with her, son,” he continued with a wistful smile and the same far-away stare. “She hasn’t told you yet, but she’s going to have a baby.”

I caught my breath and blinked in surprise. Mama going to have a baby? It couldn’t be. Surely father was in shock and didn’t know what he was saying.

“Promise me son you’ll take care of the land. You can’t give it up. It’s all we have. Promise me you’ll keep working it.”

“But Father—” I protested, trying to make him see.

“Promise me”

What else could I do? “I promise,” I said dropping my eyes to the floor, unable to bear his empty gaze any longer.

“Son.” His voice was kind and firm, but I did not shift my gaze.

“Son, look me in the eyes.” Slowly, I raised my head and searched his face. He was there—my father—as he had been before mama died. I saw him shining in the green depths his eyes—no longer empty and foreboding, but swirling with life and love. I wanted to hug him, but his hands remained on my shoulders separating us.

“You are a good boy. A good boy.” He shook me gently, and as his hands slid from my shoulders, I watched the light faded from his eyes.

Turning to the door he mumbled, “I’m going to go check the fields.”

“But you can’t. There’s a storm outside.” He didn’t seem to hear me and pulled open the door. The wind rushed in sending tiny particles of sand tumbling about the room. He stepped outside.

“No!” I rushed to the door. Father struggled through the wind and sand towards the fields.

“Father!” I screamed. “FATHER!”

He did not look back.

The wind carried to my ears the last words my father ever spoke.

“I’m coming, Melissa. I’m coming.”

As I stood in the doorway one arm shielding my face from the stinging dust, I whispered my last words to him.

“I promise father; I will keep this land.”

But I didn’t. I let them take it away from me. I broke my promise.

Chapter Three

Breath. Easy breaths. Knock on the door with a steady hand.

My mind gives my body commands, and it obeys. No one comes to the door, so I knock again.

“Hey!”

I jump and turn at the sound of a man’s sharp voice. The Banker’s man stands at the corner of the wraparound porch. I wonder what his name is. I have never heard anyone say it before. He looks me over with piercing eyes. “What do you want?”

I wet my lips. “I need to talk to Mr. Fellton.” He looks at me oddly but nods for me to follow him around the corner. The porch creaks under our footsteps. I notice I walk like my father, one heavy footstep after another.

As we approach, the banker does not look up from the papers he is reading.

“Arthur, this boy wants to talk to you,” the Banker’s man says, sounding slightly irritated and suspicious. The Banker continues to hold the papers in front of his face, but I notice him peering over the top of them. I think he realizes I see him for he pointedly flips the page over and begins reading the other side. Just because he can, and I have to wait. My hands are sweating.

The Banker shuffles the papers again. They look like legal documents, probably giving him the right to destroy another family.

I clench my fist. Enough families have been destroyed. I will not wait any longer. I rush forward and lean over the table, my hands planted firmly on the edge. The Banker scraps his chair backwards, alarmed at my sudden approach, but his eyes settle back into their usual coldness. He suspects nothing.

The Banker's man makes as if to grab me, but the banker waves him away. “Who are you?” he asks his chin wobbling irritatingly.

I smile as the irony hits me. “That sounds just about right. You ruin me and my family, and you haven't even met me yet.”

“Who are you?”

I straighten to make myself taller. “I am my father’s only son.” My voice sounds strong in my ears even as my heart trembles.

“He’s Will Barkley’s boy,” the Banker’s man cuts in, “He gave us some trouble when we came to get your land.”

“My land,” I correct.

The banker's man glares at me. I had given them some trouble at that.

A week after my father’s funeral. That’s when they came for my land. I had nothing packed. I had nowhere to go. Butthe Banker’s man along with two others came knocking on my door. I opened it slowly. There was part of me that still doubted that they would actually throw me out with nowhere to go.

The Banker’s man stood on the porch in the bright sun, nearly a head taller than me. He pointed across the fields and said, “Out.” One word, and yet that simple word had the power to cut me off from all means of support.

I stared at him blankly, not moving, my hand still on the door knob. Inclining his head toward me, he stepped aside. The other two men rushed in, grabbed my arms and threw me out into the dust. I stayed there on the ground only rising to my knees. Looking up with pleading eyes, I said, “Please, you can’t take my land from me.”

“It is not your land; it belongs to Arthur Fellton.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked beseechingly, almost more to myself than to them.

“That is not our problem.”

Suddenly I realized that I was just like my father, groveling before people I despised who had as much pity in them as a stone.

I flew to my feet and straight at the Banker’s man. My head collided with his chest and we slammed into the house. He threw me from him ,and once more I tumbled from the porch. As I scrambled to my feet, he stepped down to meet me. I did not think on his size or of the others waiting to back him up; I thought only of my promise to my father.

Not thinking about it did not diminish his advantage. I ended up on the ground once more with the Banker’s man astride me digging his knee into my back. I turned my face to the side trying not to breath in the dust. It was no use. I coughed; each jarring made painful by the knee pressed into my spine and my arm twisted behind me.

“Are you ready to leave?”

“No,” I croaked my throat dry with dust. I had promised Father to stay.

My spine felt like it would break under the pressure.

“Are you ready to leave?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Father... I began coughing again and gasping for breath. Each cough squeezed my chest and stomach, and each gasp brought in more dust. I was choking.

“Are you ready to leave?” The Banker’s man asked for the third time. I nodded my head. I'm sorry father... He let me up, and I stood on trembling legs. I doubled over with coughing, until finally, I vomited. Clods of mud floated in my vomit. Straightening I wiped my mouth. The Banker’s man smiled smugly at me. Anger boiled inside of me, so I punched him in the mouth and fled.

I think he is remembering that punch I gave him as he glares at me and rubs his chin. I turn my attention back to the Banker.

“What good is that land to you? At least let me live there and work it.”

“What I do with my land is no concern of yours,” the banker replies riffling through the pages before him.

I slam my fist on the table. “It is my father’s land!”

“Your father is dead.”

“And you're the one who killed him!” My hand slides to my pocket, but the Banker’s eyes flick to the right. He inclines his head, and my arms are seized. I struggle against the Banker’s man, spitting out my angry words, tired of him brushing me away as if I were a pesky fly.

“Look at me! Look me in the face if you dare.” The Banker raises his eyes to mine. I feel my face burning red. My hair has fallen in my eyes. I glare at him through the sweaty strands, and he does not look away. “See what you've built on!” I shout, spittle flying from my mouth, “Broken homes and destitute families. Your very presence reeks of greed.” The Banker’s man tries to drag me away, but I continue shouting. “How can you live with yourself knowing everything you own you’ve stolen from the hands of the poor?”

The Banker’s man twists my arm behind me, jerking me close. “Leave,” he growls in my ear and shoves me away.

I turn to go. I will just walk away. I won’t do it. I'll just walk...My heart races. I see my father before me—his wrinkled face and hopeless eyes.

He killed my father. He killed him. He killed—

With a cry I spin around, drawing the gun from my pocket. I point my trembling hands at the Banker as he half rises from his chair. My mouth growls what my heart is screaming. “You killed my father!”

Through my blurred vision, I see fear in his eyes as I pull the trigger.

Chapter Four

The gun shot echoes in my ears as the Banker falls back into his seat, blood seeping from his chest. Bright red blood dripping, dripping. My heart races, but my feet won’t move. Everything is still as if someone has frozen time. The gun drops from my numb fingers, clattering to the porch and breaking the spell. I turn on my heels, evading the grasping hands of the Banker’s man and race off the porch. I look behind me to see if he will follow. He takes two steps forward, then turns to the Baker.

Suddenly, I run into something. I look up from where I have fallen. It is a horse. A horse! My hazy mind almost misses the significance. Scrambling to my feet, I swing into the saddle. Why hadn’t I thought of a horse? That was stupid. I might have been caught.

Men are running in circles; no one knows what has happened. They are shouting; I see the wide open mouths, but I can’t hear their voices. My ears are ringing, echoing the gun shot over and over until my head throbs.

This horse is a good one, swift and sure. Already I have left the town behind me, but not my pursuers. There are five men following, but they are not close.

Thoughts rush tumultuously in my aching head. He is dead. My Father is avenged. He is dead. He is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

The horse’s hooves pound the words into my brain. Dead. Dead. Dead.

The wind picks up, swirling the dust and stinging my eyes. This time I welcome it. Blow hard and hide me. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and tie it over my face—like a mask.

All about me there is nothing to break the dullness of endless browns. The wheat fields, the occasional houses, my clothes, even this horse—all have become varying shades of that lifeless hue. Even the sky is drained of its color.

Still now I am grateful; I am as one with the land, camouflaged like one of the herds of jackrabbits that have plagued us as they were driven from their homes by the dust. Why shouldn’t I be one with the land? Are we not all but dust?

Hours pass. Is it day or night? My horse stumbles; my tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. I need something to occupy my mind so I do not keep seeing the blood dripping, dripping down the Banker’s chest. Who knew that blood was so red? So cheerfully, mockingly bright? And still the horse's hooves beat the daunting refrain: Dead. Dead. Dead.

Everyone dead. My father. My Mother. My baby sister or brother. Why did Father have to tell me that Mama was going to have a baby?

I wonder what it would have been if she’d lived to give birth. A brother, who could help me with the chores? Or perhaps a little sister, with sparkling eyes and dainty toes. She would look just like Mama and wear bright dresses to chase away the dullness around us—but no, I would not wish it to be a girl, for the dust that blows off the plains is no fairy dust, and there are no palaces for little princesses to flee to from the sun’s fiery breath.

Argh! Will it not go away? Everywhere I turn a spot of red blurs my vision. Is this the price I must pay for avenging my father?

Night arrives, so softly I had not noticed its approach. Several stars shine out bravely in that dark expanse.

A building looms before me in the darkness; it’s an old farm house. The broken front door leans against the front of the house. The sagging roof and missing windows give testimony to its abandoned state. I ought to keep going, but the horse I’m riding tires. Stumbling and nearly falling it carries me slowly through the sand to the house. The wind has died, and I see no one in the darkness behind me. I must have lost them in the storm. Carefully I slide off my horse, holding tight to the saddle until my legs are steady. I grope along the horse; perhaps there will be a canteen of water. My fingers find nothing.

Entering the house, I look about for anything that might contain water, but the house has been deserted long, and I find nothing but a broken jar beside a basin full of sand. A crumpled dull-blue jacket lies on the floor at my feet. Picking it up, I shake the dirt from it and slip it on. It hangs loosely on my shivering frame. I draw it tight about me and cross my arms over my chest to keep them warm.

Why am I so cold? I shouldn’t be this cold. I sit on a sagging bed in the corner. I will rest for a minute, but I must leave soon. I must leave soon...

Father, why is there blood on my hands? I tried to wash them, but it won't come off. Why is there blood—Father, look out! Behind you. It’s the banker. He’s going to take your land. I'll stop him. I’ll make sure he can’t—Father, what’s wrong? There is blood, blood everywhere. Are you okay Father? I didn't mean to hit you. I thought I shot the Banker. Where is he now? I can still—Father, don’t look at me that way. Where are you going, Father? You can't go outside; there is a storm. Come back. You'll get killed. No, don't go. Come back! Come back, Father! Father—

I sit up with a jerk. My head throbs. I lower it into my hands and bury my fingers in my hair. Why hadn’t I rushed out to stop him? I had grown stronger than Father. I should have wrestled him back inside and kept him there.

But what for? To watch his land grow more desolate each year? To watch them take it away from him and with it his pride?

No. For me. I should have done it for me.

Instead, I shut the door and sank against it, wishing I’d never been born. And in doing so, I’d let my father die.

My head snaps up. I no longer hear the gunshot bursting in my ears, but something else catches my attention. Voices. Men’s voices. Suddenly I spring to my feet. I have to get out of here.

Chapter Five

Creeping to the door, I spy five riders in the early twilight. A lantern swings between them, casting its yellow glow upon the ground. I slip out the back door and run leaving the horse behind. I can’t risk getting it. Besides, I doubt it could carry me far.

Enough darkness lingers to hide me as I run doubled-over along a fence line, but the sun will be above the horizon in another hour. What then? Where will I hide? When a lone tree stands in the middle of a field, it is not hard to guess the hiding place of a fugitive.

Perhaps I should go back towards town. They wouldn’t expect that. Which way is it? To the West? Perhaps—

“I see him! There he is!”

Instantly I drop to the ground beside the fence and the embankment of sand and tumble weeds that have blown up against it. Did they really see me? I army-crawl through the dirt.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“He was there by that fence.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Though the men’s voices are faint, I hear their words all too clearly. My body tenses wanting to leap up and flee, but I force myself to continue crawling. They are uncertain. Perhaps if I find a place to hide, they’ll pass me by. If I jump up now, they're sure to catch me.

I crawl on trying to ignore the seconds flying by, each one counted out by my hammering heart.

Dear God, show me a place to hide.

Yes. God. Why do our minds turn to Him when there is no hope? Why do our desperate hearts cling to Him as their last refuge?

Perhaps because there is nothing else left to turn to.

The familiar dryness of dust covers my throat. My bandana has slipped around my neck. I pull it over my face again, but I feel like I’m going to suffocate.

A horse whinnies. I have to run. Why didn’t I run before? I’m so stupid. I squeeze my eyes shut and continue crawling. Dear God help me! Tensing I get ready to leap to my feet, but first I open my eyes.

In front of me not three yards away I see a cave in the sand. One of the fence posts is broken in half. Tumble weeds have gathered between the wires creating a roof. The sand piled on top of it, but the broken fence post kept it from blowing into the hole. Increasing my speed, I wriggle forward and curl into the hole like a wild animal. Sand sifts down on me.

Pushing sand in front of me, I frantically try to cover the opening. Thumping hooves and angry voices grow louder. Taking a deep breath, gritting my teeth, and squeezing my eyes shut, I reach above me and pull out a handful of sticks and weeds. Sand falls, slipping and sliding with a soft hissing sound.

Curled in a fetal position, I slowly let my breath out through my nose. Wiping my eyes with one hand, I crack them open. Darkness surrounds me. Am I hidden now, or is my hair showing? Or my shirt collar? I dare not move to check.

The ground trembles slightly, and a horse whinnies overhead, followed by tramping hooves and jiggling harnesses. The five men stop on the opposite side of the fence. I curl tighter, my knees pressing into my forehead.

Hide me. Please hide me!

“Where is he?”

Although I listen to the grave voices of my pursuers, in the back of my mind runs a constant, pleading refrain: Hide me. Hide me. Hide me.

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Of course I’m sure. Who else would it be? He was over here.”

“Well he’s not here now unless he dug himself a hole.”

“He wouldn’t have time for that,” says an impatient voice. “Come on, let’s go.”

The trampling hooves slowly fade into the distance. I am safe.

My eyes fly open; I must have slept—a dreamless sleep this time that brought no rest. The walls of my hideaway press down on me. I am suffocating. Frantically I scramble out of the sand, leaving behind my grave-like shelter. Shaking myself, I stand gasping for air like a drowning man, only instead of choking on water, I choke on sand. My thundering heart urges me, “Run! Run!” And so I must obey.

I try to fill my lugs with air, but with each breath, they reject it and send it back for new. Again and again they ask for better, till I cannot keep up.

And still I must run, for a Darkness creeps behind me. I feel its stale breath on my neck. Its swirling, condemning mists crowd the back of my mind. I race not knowing where I go.

My legs ache; my knees feel jammed. There seems to be a sword in my side and a fire in chest. Pain, yes, focus on the pain. It will keep the Darkness at bay. Stumbling, I force my legs to reach before me again and again, pulling the earth past me a foot at a time.

In the corners of my eyes the Darkness grows. It seeps into my vision as I strain to run faster. My foot strikes a rock and I fall to my knees. Get up! Get up! I cannot run. I cannot even rise.

With grim triumph, the Darkness surges forward into my mind. I clutch my head and look wildly about me, but there is no place to hide. I must face this mysterious and foreboding Darkness and conquer it, or be swallowed forever in its eerie, formless gloom.

Slowly, in the Darkness, an orange glow appears. As it grows brighter and brighter, I realize that in burning strokes of fire it spells a single word: Murderer.

I shrink back from the condemning word, afraid. No, no! It is not true. I did only what I had to for Father. The word flares brighter. I feel the heat of it on my face. I try to turn away, but despite all my struggling the scorching brand touches me. Searing pain shoots through my head as, sizzling and burning, the iron brands me with the degrading, red letters of my crime: Murderer. Murderer.

I shake my head, clawing at my hair, for I know it is true, and I cannot escape it. For though I hid from my pursuers, how can I hide from myself? And what man can hide from God's all-seeing eye?

With my head buried again in my hands, I kneel in the dust, my mind swirling in darkness and pressed by despairing questions. Do our lives indeed have purpose, or are we but handfuls of dust tossed about in the wind? Is God directing our paths or are we left to learn the steps of this dance alone? Did He simply place us on this desolate earth to watch us struggle and to pronounce judgment?

All these questions are illuminated by one word still burning in my mind.

Will I ever be free of it? Must the rest of my days be haunted by those frightened eyes and the sickening sight of blood? Must I always be running, fearful of betrayal and being caught?

No, my own heart has betrayed me, and I am prisoner to my own mind. I need only call my body into submission, and I am finished. How can I go on when I find myself more repulsive than even those in the town do? I am an animal. There is no dignity left me. I have but one noble thing left for me to do.

Chapter Six

Slowly I stand, setting my jaw just as I did—has it been but a day and a half ago?—when I made the decision that has so altered my life. I look about me with cleared vision. To my surprise I see a house in the distance with a shed and a chicken-coop out back. Very faintly beyond it I can tell the outline of another house. In my agitated state, I must have run subconsciously back towards town. At least I haven’t as far to travel now.

A few yards in front of me a little girl sits under a tree playing with a rag doll. She looks just the age my sister would be now if Mama had given birth to a girl. I cannot help the smile that tugs at my lips as I watch her rock her doll, unaware that anyone in the world is watching save that sweet cloth face staring up at her with big button eyes. So innocent, so serene.

An unnatural silence falls, as if the world, too, is watching, holding its breath lest it disturb her calm repose. As the silence lingers, I grow uneasy and slowly turn to look behind me.

Black clouds rise from the earth to the sky, a wall of dust sweeping across the land like a flood, swallowing everything in its path. My heart races as I stand transfixed watching the approaching storm.

Breaking my gaze away, I spin around, run to the little girl, and scoop her into my arms. She stares at me with wide eyes—deep-blue, just the color the sky ought to be. I need not explain to her the danger. Even at her tender age I see in her eyes she knows it, for she has grown up with the dust.

The wind howls around us breaking the silence, so eerie in the face of approaching danger. The little girl does not scream or struggle; she does not even cry. Instead she clutches her doll and snuggles into my arms—so trusting. Oh, how she would shrink from me trembling if she knew what I had done only yesterday! She would not so confidently place her hand on my neck to stroke it and give comfort.

As the wind whips about us driving sand like needles against our skin, I press the girl’s face into my chest and pull my jacket over her. I draw my strength from the warm, dampness of her breath seeping through my shirt. Each puff of air assures me that she is alive.

My feet slide in the shifting sand. The dust swarms about us like angry hornets. Through a hazy screen I see the farmhouse standing far away. Still so very far. The wind tears at my hair and clothes. Slipping her hand from my neck, the little girl slides it under my jacket and clings to the buckle of my overalls.

Struggling up a small incline I lose my footing and slip to my knees, the wind whistling in my ears. My calves burn with exhaustion and my arms tremble. I curl my body over the little girl’s, shielding her as best I can from the raging dust and angry wind. We cling to each other as we huddle small and alone in a wilderness of dancing dust.

I cry out, whether aloud or in my heart I do not know, “God save her! You cannot let this little girl die! You must save her. You have to.”

The breath against my chest grows faint, just a trickle of air; nothing compared to the gusts buffeting us from all sides. I clutch her tighter to me. No! You cannot let her die! I’ll do anything! Anything.

I must carry her to the house—get her out of the storm—but I have no strength. My legs tremble and my mouth is as dry as paper. Yet I must try. I stagger to my feet, but it is not my own strength that keeps me standing. Some unseen hand supports me as I stagger forwards, my eyes shut against the storm.

A scream rises higher than the turbulent wind. I open my eyes. A woman with wild hair and flapping gray dress rushes toward me and snatches the little girl from my arms, covering her with kisses and tears.

Bereft of my burden, I am also bereft of my strength. Once more I fall to my knees. And the wind slows. And the dust settles. The woman looks into my face and screams again, for she knows me, even if I do not know her. Of course I’ve seen her around town before, but I never thought to inquire her name. I suppose now would not be the best time to do so. Besides, the only word I can force through my cracked lips is “water”. It is barely audible to my own ears, so I try again. “Water, please.”

The woman looks at me with undisguised horror, before turning to the little child snuggled in her arms. Without a word she whisks her inside, most likely to give that life-giving substance I so crave.

Yes, yes. She deserves it more than I.

I wish I could just stay here and let them find me. But I must face what I’ve done. This is the last thing I can do to restore any honor. I push myself from the ground, and as I turn my eyes upwards, I find myself staring into the hard gaze of the Banker’s man.

Chapter Seven

They must have been waiting for me. But how could they know I would be here if I did not know myself?

The Banker’s man strikes me across the mouth. “I owed you that,” he growled. “Now this one’s just for pleasure.” He strikes me again, and my knees buckle. Blood drops from my split lip.

The farmhouse door creaks as the woman steps back outside, still holding her daughter closely. Pointing a thin finger at me, she croons, “Bad man. Bad, bad man.”

I turn my face away lest I see that sweet face shrink away from me in fear as she learns who I really am. A bad man.

“Is this the boy who shot Arthur?” the sheriff asks of the men standing around him who had been searching for me.

“Yes, sir.” I nod, answering before the Banker’s man can open his mouth. “Yes, it was me.”

“Do you realize—”

I cut him off. “I know what I’ve done, and I know what I’ve seen. That’s why I was coming back to turn myself in.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” the Banker’s man says. He continues talking, but all I hear is a little voice repeating, “Bad man. Dat bad man!” And I feel my heart breaking.

“Lucky for you, son, Arthur’s not dead. The doctor says he should recover…” The sheriff’s words enter my mind, but they bring no relief.

I have not killed anyone, but what does it change for me? I still meant to kill him. Perhaps the law will not call me a murderer, but my mind and heart already condemn me.

The sheriff unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his belt. My head sinks to my chest. The Banker’s man yanks me up by my arm. Once more I hear the childish voice say, “Dat bad man.”

I thought my heart could ach no more. I was wrong.

The Banker’s man snaps the handcuffs on one wrist, pressing is so it cuts into my skin. The sheriff pretends not to notice as he talks to one of the men standing near. Before he captures my other wrist, a small hand slips into mine.

Surprised I look down at the little girl confidently holding my hand. “Dat bad man,” she says again, pointing, not at me, but at the Banker’s man. She gazes up at me with those big eyes that stole their color from the sky and says, “You dood man.”

If only I were a good man. If only I were worthy of her trust.

A smile lights her face like a quiet beam of sunshine and breaks another part of my heart, a part that had hardened many years ago when Mama died. I feel tears steal into my eyes, and I cry for the first time in three years. I cry for Mama, and for Father, and my little unborn brother or sister. I cry because I am sorry.

Forgive me, God. Forgive me and make me new.

I did not know I had any water left in me, but warm tears continue to flow over my cheeks, stinging my parched lips and tingling delightfully on my swollen tongue as they leak into the corners of my mouth.

Bending down, I kiss the top of the little girl’s head. “God bless you child.”

As her mother leads her away, tears glistening in her own eyes, the little girl smile at me again, and my broken heart begins to heal.

The Banker’s man snaps the other handcuff on my wrist, but the sheriff stops him from tightening it. “That is enough.”

As they lead me away to do my time, my tears still slide silently from my eyes, but I do not cry for myself. I am not worthy of tears. Yet as I turn my face to the sky, the heavens weep for me. As our tears fall mingled to the earth, giving life to the barren ground, I smile, for now I know that I am loved and not merely a handful of dancing dust.

Poems, Prose, and Poppycock

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Wednesday, January 22, 2014

The Car Door

Monday, January 13, 2014

Dancing Dust