Hey boys, how ’bout y’all makin’ yer Ma some wind chimes?”

The group of boys sprinted off around the property to search for materials. Ages six to seventeen they were nearly a full baseball roster.

Many of the local folks wondered how it was possible for there to be eight boys in a row with no girls.

Some say Ma dabbled in the dark arts. Others, thought she was a luck charm and would travel from far away to have her bless their bulging bellies for a boy.

That night Ma walked around the porch admiring the children’s fine work.

Two sets of chimes were made of rusty tractor parts. Four sets were made of sticks and cones. One set was made of old bones and feathers. One set was made empty soup cans.

The ninth set, a set of upside down daisies, silently swished in the cool night air.

Ma shot a rage filled glare toward the loft of the old barn as she ripped the flowers down, grinding them to bits under her bare feet.

A tiny set of eyes darted from view, followed by the faintest glint of long blonde hair.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

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June 23rd, 2015

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