By Daniel Davis
This land, open and forever, was no place for God. Even Lisa, daughter of a traveling preacher, only spoke His name in vain anymore. But I would resort to anything to get me to the next town and back again. Be it God or the Devil—or anything in between.
Sheila’s hooves stuck in the mud; each step was an effort for her. If she had been any older, she would have collapsed; as it was, the odds of me being able to ride her back were slim. I knew the storm would not pass anytime soon. These downpours were not sudden, like they were back east; they were as endless as the horizon, approaching with a subtle buildup that was easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were watching for, and then striking with the quickness of a snake. Back in her Bible days, before the Lord had been bleached from her, Lisa said the storms were God’s wrath at mankind for being at the top of the food chain. “Every beast needs a predator. These rainstorms are God’s way of telling us that we are not the true masters of the land.”
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Daniel Davis is a native of rural Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at Facebook.com/DanielDavis05, or @dan_davis86 on Twitter