PR E SS
And now he was returning. The letter had pleaded. It had spoken of family and forgiveness and hope. He had listened and now he was back. The wind whipped his hair side to side as he looked across the flattening countryside. His father had once said to him, “They need people like us. What do people expect to eat? Soy?” It was a scathing question, loaded with sarcasm. He was supposed to say no. He was supposed to like farming. The family had worked the land since before photographs were invented. It was the way it was supposed to be. Back then, not even fences marked the end of one farm and the beginning of another. “We were really free then. Not like today with all these laws, if you worked it, it was yours. No questions asked.” Now the land was divided by fences, big fences that marked what belonged to whom, nothing more. They couldn’t keep anyone on one side or the other. Driving back, the private property signs stood out, posted on gates over dirt roads just off the highway. He hadn’t recognized them before. They were always just suggestions, and why pay attention to suggestions when the only real consequence was being chased back over the fence by a weary guard dog? The sky was turning orange as he pulled off the highway at the dirt road that led up to his house. He got out, went to open the gate but found it held by a shiny padlock. With a grunt of dismay, he walked back to his car and sat down. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed the number. For a minute he sat, looking down at the screen, before he pressed send. A familiar voice answered, he said his name, and the voice told him to wait a minute. They told him they would be right there, and then they were silent. The phone clicked and he sat. Waiting.
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blue moon