No Saints In Kansas By Amy Brashear
Prologue: I CAN SMELL THE KEROSENE. The police tape is the only thing that separates me from the men loading a pickup truck with bloodstained blankets, sheets, pillows—even a couch. I grip the bicycle handlebars so tight my knuckles turn white. There are a lot of volunteer men here. And there are a lot of people like me, standing behind this barricade, crying. I use the sleeve of my coat to wipe my eyes and my runny nose. All around I hear sniffling and whimpering. Two blood-soaked mattresses are chucked onto the pile. Foreman Taylor puts a teddy bear in the back and digs for his keys in his pocket. He starts slowly down the lane. I push my bike across the grass and lean it up against a fence post. He drives right through the police tape, straight across the road, into the wheat field. We lookie-loos turn and watch him unload it all. After everything is stacked into a pyramid, the teddy bear’s placed on top, like a star on a Christmas tree. He lights a match and tosses it. Smoke fills the air as everything that once belonged to my friend and her family burns.
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No Saints In Kansas By Amy Brashear
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Reviewed by Admin
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