Patty stood at the post near the end of the dirt driveway, red dust billowing around her ankles as a pickup truck sped by.  She was waiting for her father.  Her mother, her aunts, her uncles and cousins were all gathered inside, wailing, having already decided her father was lost forever, a casualty of the dark, murderous Mississippi night.  She knew the stories, every child had overheard their parents whispering them – cowards hidden under sheets, lynchings, bombings, crosses burning.  But, her father was brave; she knew he’d come back.

She’d never stop waiting.


Six Sentence Story Challenge  prompt this week is post.



Photo – ceayr

Dad was taking me on a tour of Savannah, his hometown, stopping in front of a grand French-style home.   Grand Historic Home – Tours Daily read the sign.   A group of tourists milled about.

“Our family lived here for generations,” Dad said.

“Lived here?  They were rich?” I asked.

“No, honey.  They worked here.  They were slaves, then, after the war, they were servants.”

I remembered the stories I’d learned in school.  People in chains, treated as less than human, subjected to all manner of inhumane treatment.  I stare at the tourists snapping photos and laughing, confusion twisting my face.

For Friday Fictioneers