Nothing comes back from Lavery Road but the wind. Folks talk hushed about old Ma Lavery. Older’n dirt. Meaner’n badgers. Family all gone. Fever? I ask. Nope. Disappeared.
Pastor says visitin’s a Christian duty. He don’t, but I oughta.
Rotten apple doll rockin’ on the porch, shufflin’ cards. “Playin’ cards is Devil’s tools.”
Shiny black bean eyes. Clawed hand pokes out. “Cut.” Shakes the deck. Afeared, I snatch a hot handful.
“Queen,” she wheezes.
“Miz Lavery…” Card’s gettin' hotter.
Ma laughs. Winks at the queen of diamonds. I stare back, burnin’, trapped.
She fans the cards, checkin’ the family. Shuffles.
****
Written for the 100-word Microfiction Competition, NYCMidnight, May 2021.
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