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No one talks about "el rancho." Not in town, not even in whispers. The road that once led to it is half-swallowed by mesquite and dust, like the land itself is trying to forget. But I can still see the outline of the gate when I close my eyes- the rusted arch, the crooked wire fence, the silence that wasn’t really silence at all. “I don’t know where the wind is taking me,” I whisper, staring down the dirt road. “I can’t go back. It disappeared.” People say the wind carries memories out here. That it knows things. That it saw things. When it...
Weekly Contest #287
(This story explores themes of illness, grief, and life during a pandemic, told through the lens of a child.)The white metal gate clangs shut behind me, and I hop over the first crack in the sidewalk – you can't step on the lines, everyone knows that brings bad luck. My mother grips my hand tightly and walks so fast that my little legs have to do a funny dance to keep up, like a baby roadrunner from the cartoons Papa and I watch on Sundays."Don't touch anything," she reminds me for the third time since we left home. I swing our joined hands ...
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