Southern Gothic: The Wind

When I was in Littleton, I would speak to the man who rides the wind. If I had a secret, or a lie, or a neat fact about rocks, I would climb the pine in the middle of the woods and whisper it to him. Sometimes he would whisper back.

Sometimes he would tell me the stories of the people who were here before.

Of the old man and woman who lived in my house and fed the birds.

Of the young men and women who carved the dirt roads through the unwelcome woods between homesteads.

Of the people who didn’t need roads, and who the trees welcomed with open arms.

I think he was one of them.

I think maybe he was lonely. If I didn’t come out for a few days he would scream and beat on my windows at night. He just wanted someone to listen to his stories. To the gentle whispers of love around a bonfire that wafted up to him on the smoke. To the screaming of people running from their homes. All our stories twisted into gusts.

The wind remembers what you say, so leave a story he will want to tell.