Many thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers!
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Mama grew up in Kansas, thought moving to Tennessee would be safety, but the Alley moved too.
On Spring weekends, she’d scrutinize clouds, possessed.
It was a Sunday when Mama grabbed our wrists, called Pup who came, for once, and sought cover in the basement.
Screeches, wailing surged overhead, the worst dream-monsters alive. Banging, the cracking of wood beams. Mama hugged us close.
“Banshees, babies, banshees.”
I thought whoever banshees were would get us like they did Mama’s folks, but they didn’t.
We lost everything. But us.
Now, decades later, I watch my kids play and the Spring clouds–always.