The floorboards creaked as he shuffled to the front door. It squeaked as it opened and the morning air brought his little body a shiver. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he tried to recall what his father, a prosperous cheater, had said of his return.
His mother, always the bridesmaid, had become another man’s bride. She stood in the kitchen watching a pot on the stove, staring at it intently until, all of a sudden, it began to boil. “My work is done,” said the woman.
He hobbled his way down the creaking front steps to the little red wagon with the squeaking wheels. A makeshift trailer in tow, he made his way to the turnip garden. As he sat there squeezing the blood from each one, he looked up, much to his surprise to see a pig flying overhead.
Following the pig along the dry riverbed, he at last stood at the edge of the earth. Looking afar into the horizon over the cavernous and barren ocean floor below, he remembered what his father said of when he would come back home – and a cold chill filled the air.