The first thing she notices as she drives up the road was the great oak tree her great-grandfather had planted was gone. Instead, there was a stump surrounded by a chaotic array of wildflowers and a broken glider swing. The driveway was overgrown and riddled with potholes. It has been more than ten years since anyone came this way.

The house sits on the edge of picturesque wheat fields with a pine forest stretching for acres behind it. She remembered when she first drove past it in the backseat of her parents Chevy station wagon. They saw the rolling golden oats and the blossoming trees. All she saw were the foreboding shadows and the isolation. She didn’t take a full breath until they turned the corner and the plot was out of sight. Over the years the shadows only got darker.

She parks in front of the sinking wrap-around porch. The paint has been peeling since it was first coated on the tin siding. It was always a battle against the wind and the rain. Most of the windows no longer had glass in them. Her mother would cry if she could see the state of her favorite stained glass window. She could see the back living room wall through the holes no one had bothered to fill in. She turns around in time to see the deputy park his car next to hers.

“What are you doin’ here Kate? It’s been a long time.”

It’s been nearly two decades since she’d last seen the deputy. Make that sheriff now. The memories are not kind. He’s a little thicker around the middle and his hair is more snow than sand. His eyes are still crystal blue and granite hard.

“Would you believe I was just passing through?”

He follows her as she walks around the side the of the house. The garden resembles a swamp more than anything vegetables would grow in. The marks of running footsteps have been overgrown with prairie grass. She kicks a rock that somehow seems to be the source of my frustration. It’s better than kicking the real one. She’s trying to keep the memories at bay.


The first bullet missed the window but the second went thru the lower pane. Glass shattered all over the front porch swing. She was too young to realize how dangerous those small popping sounds were. She knew that when the black noise maker came out, daddy was mad. Those nights were long and sleepless. Mamma usually went to bed downstairs with blue and purple rings around her eyes. She was only seven when she first grabbed a dirty dish rag to wipe away her mother’s tears.

By the time she was ten she had become a master liar. She spun tales better than spiders spun webs. Fragile, works of art and no one bothered it for fear the truth would fall out.


She looks over her shoulder as the sheriff trips over what’s left of the old wood pile. She can’t breathe. The shed is a pile of broken rubble. One wall still stands. All that’s left of the door are the silver hinges that are dingy and blackened. She unglues her feet from the path and starts walking. She steps around the broken handle of Daddy’s old ax and stops to peer at the stain inside the open doorway.

“The least you guys could have done was clean up the blood.”

Published by Lauren Klitzke

Lauren Klitzke is a poet and storyteller.

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