Collection of Short Stories

The Dust Monster

I sit on the front porch of my farm, rolling a smooth wooden ball in between my fingertips, wondering when the next horror will ruin my life further. So far only one dust storm has hit us, but it had been awful. What little crops and cattle that we had left died, and most of our food in storage had been taken by the storm. I sigh and lick my chapped lips, wondering what we are going to eat tonight. Surely not enough to fill my empty stomach. Not in this lifetime anyway.

I hear a familiar squeal and then a bark and I turn to see my five year old sister, Cima, and our old border collie, Jerry, playing out in the yard behind me. I situate myself so that I can watch them, the wooden ball feeling like it's molding into my fingers now as I roll it back and forth, back and forth. Cima squeals and throws the bone that we got from one of our cow's legs for Jerry. I remember Papa going out to the barn and telling us that we couldn't come but once he's done he'll have something fun for us. Then he came back and we spent the rest of the day teaching Jerry how to fetch and playing with him.

I sigh again, beginning to toss the wooden ball from hand to hand, wondering why he had to leave. Mama had said something about a job and getting a decent meal for once, but even though that sounds good, I would much rather have Papa here. He always looked on the positive side of things and loved to dance and sing, often twirling around the house and singing off key on purpose just to earn an eye-roll and a chuckle from Mama.

Cima laughs as Jerry leaps into the air to catch the bone, falling back to the ground and jogging over, his tail wagging furiously and his eyes bright and happy. I smile at the sound of my sister's laughter, closing my eyes to fully experience her joy as Jerry licks her face with his slobbery pink tongue. Her laughter dances around me like a song and my grin widens a little. I admire Cima for being able to laugh during such hard times. She cried, like all of us, when Papa left, but a couple days later she was as happy as ever. Me and Mama got over it eventually, but we haven't laughed like Cima.

"Fetch!" I hear her cry, and I can almost imagine her throwing the bone as far as she can (which isn't very far) and laughing as Jerry catches it midair, but no laughter reaches me. I frown, opening my eyes and looking around to see that Cima had thrown the bone again, but this time it had gone way over Jerry's head and landed pretty far away. I turn back to my sister, my eyes wide, to see that she is laughing now, her eyes twinkling mischievously. I shake my head in amusement and roll my eyes when suddenly Cima's face splits in horror and she screams, "JERRY!"

I whip around to see what she is so scared of and gasp as I see the monster of writhing black dust heading straight to us. It looms over the small hill in front of our tiny house and rushes toward us, sending birds and squirrels running in terror. To my horror I see Cima sprint toward Jerry, who is running toward the dust storm to retrieve the bone that my little sister threw.

"CIMA NO!" I scream at the top of my lungs, the wooden ball falling out of my hands as I stand up. Suddenly a loud bang cracks through the air and Mama appears, having slammed the door to our house wide open. Her eyes scan the field and light up in horror as she takes in what is happening, then, to my shock, she runs toward me.

"No! No we need to get Cima!" I cry to her before running toward my little sister. My heart pounds against my chest and my breath comes fast as the dust storm draws ever nearer to Cima and Jerry, who has just picked up the bone. Our poor dog turns around and runs, and I watch as Jerry reaches Cima and she drops down to hug him quickly before pulling him to the house, her eyes alight with pure terror as her little legs move as fast as they can, but they don't move fast enough. They aren't going to make it in time.

Mama reaches me then, her strong arms wrapping tightly around me as she lifts me up. I scream and fight against her as she starts running toward the house, her wild hair tickling my face. Words are coming out of my mouth, but they don't make sense.....nothing makes sense.....

We reach the house and Mama yanks the door open, pulling me inside and slamming the door shut, my screams dying down until they stop. I feel numb as Mama grabs me and pulls me under the table, numb as she presses a rough, wet washcloth over my mouth and nose, numb as the dust storm hits the house. There is no way Cima survived that, no way. Through all the dusty, wild wind and horrible sound of our house being ripped apart, I don't move. I don't make a sound. I don't do anything.

And then it's over. The deafening wind stops and silence descends upon our house. Mama slowly peels the awful, dirty washcloth off my face. I wince as the taste of grit fills my mouth and a sour smell suffocates my nose. My face is coated in dust and grime as I turn to Mama, tears rolling down my face.

"Mama?" I whisper, feeling my tears make trails down my dirty face. Mama sighs and looks out a window. 

There is a moment of silence, and then she whispers, "It was her time Mark." She whispers. I see a single tear slide down her face, but it is tiny compared to the ocean that is rolling down mine. Mama pulls me into a hug, whispering comforting words into my hair.

"Shhh, shhhhh. It'll be okay Mark, everything'll be okay." She coos, but that just makes me cry harder, because how can it be okay? I just lost my sister and my best friend. How can things ever be okay?

After a little while I walk back outside, my heart heavy and my face sticky. I slowly trudge back to the front porch, my eyes downcast, still holding out hope that maybe she is still alive, maybe she and Jerry found cover. But then reality hits me like a cold slap across the face, leaving a stinging imprint. They aren't coming back. They aren't ever coming back.

I kick a rock away weakly, watching as it slowly rolls away, turning over and over, when it bumps into something. I blink in mild shock as I see my little wooden ball, caught under the porch step. I thought it would have been taken by the brutal wind, but I guess it had not. I bend down and pick up the small, dusty, toy, remembering how Cima made it for me. Papa had had some leftover wood and gave it to her. She could have made a doll or something with it for herself but instead she made me a ball.

A single, salty tear slides down my cheek and lands on the ball, splashing on the dusty surface. I watch as the tear cleans the spot it lands on, leaving a clear ink splatter on the dirt-covered surface. But my tears don't stop. I sit down on the porch, my tears falling down, the little wooden ball getting cleaner and cleaner until not a speck of dust remains. Not a single speck. 

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This I had to write for school when we were learning about the Great Depression. I actually entered this in a Scholastic writing competition. I didn't win, but I got an Honorable mention so yeah that was pretty cool.

≈Rascal≈