Storm Over Cotton Fields

6861 words

Jo’s hands trembled as she scraped the last of the cornbread batter into the cast-iron skillet, the metal cold under her fingertips despite the oven’s preheat hum. The kitchen smelled of grease and dust, a stubborn film clinging to every surface of this house no matter how hard she scrubbed. She stood at the counter, apron tied loose over her faded housedress, her eyes darting to the window above the sink. Outside, the cotton field stretched endless under a bruise-purple sky, the stalks swaying though there wasn’t a breath of wind. Her chest tightened. She’d seen it yesterday—black smoke curling up from that same field, thick and choking, but when she and Robert had run out, boots kicking red clay, there’d been nothing. No char, no ash. Just the earth, dark and wet, like it had swallowed the fire whole. “Ma, you hear that?” Lily’s voice cut through, sharp and small, from where she sat at the kitchen table, her pencil hovering over a torn notebook. Her braids were unraveling, one ribbon gone, and her eyes were wide, fixed on the window like she could see something Jo couldn’t. “Hear what, baby?” Jo kept her tone steady, though her pulse ticked up. She wiped her hands on the apron, flour dusting the fabric, and turned to face her daughter. The...