Mounds
It was the hottest summer we’d had in over five years. On our way home from school, Tommy and I found one of Mr. Mansilla’s horses lying dead on the dirt and baking in the sun. It stank something fierce. Tommy did the craziest thing and jumped on the poor beast’s belly, and we laughed ’til we cried.
We walked on and came across two mounds. One big, one small.
“You boys stay away from those mounds!” Mr. Mansilla hollered. The old fart was acting crazier than a rabid wolverine on crack.
We sat round the dinner table for supper, listening to the radio. The sheriff and his deputies still hadn’t found the mother and child who’d been reported missing for days. Pa grumbled and said the sheriff couldn’t find his dick if it got caught in his fly.
Night came, and the sky rumbled like a hundred chariots. Rain pelted my bedroom window and quenched the thirsty earth. I slept through the downpour, dreaming of dead horses and the mounds in Mr. Mansilla’s field. One big, one small.
We woke up the next morning. The rain had washed the world of grime and filth, and the air smelled cleaner.
That was the day the sheriff found the bodies. One big, one small.