[ WP ] Set in the American Dustbowl , You and your family are trapped in your house during a vicious dust-storm and you 're fairly certain there is something else lurking out there amidst the churning grey sand .

Alice remembered the day she caught mama crying over a stack of mail the postman delivered. Half were stamped with that wicked red ink, like a bad grade from a disapproving school marm but all were written to her father. Whenever she caught sight of one, Alice expected to see a nasty note written in small neat letters next to the name, but it only ever read * ‘ Past Due ’ * and * ‘ Final Notice ’ *. 
 
 That was months before her father died when he got caught in one of the first of the great dust storms. It was a terrible thing when it hit, as if the clouds had plumb ran out of water and were weeping dirt instead. Ever since, the storms kept coming, as if they were looking to make the entire world as dry and broken as Alice felt. It was the neighbor boy who found his body half buried in reddish sand and mercifully face down with a half empty bottle of drink clutched to his chest. 
 
 *His heart just gave out*, they said, but Alice never believed it. 
 
 “ He was a damned drunk and it finally got him killed, ” Mama offered instead. 
 
 They found the check dated two weeks prior and hidden under a stack of periodicals her father had been fond of. Everything with her father ’ s name on it had been cried over by her mama, from the bills to the half-hearted letters of condolences from family and friends too distant or broke themselves to attend the meager funeral, until finally, with some confusion as to whom the sender was, she opened the letter. It was a check from the insurance company. 
 
 They didn ’ t visit the bank for several more days until circumstances forced them into that part of town. She found herself wandering in with her mother through the cold, double glass doors to deposit the wrinkled and folded check. Then they were back at home and nothing had seemingly changed saved for the little deposit slip her mama kept glancing at. Each time she did, she would cry some more with a handkerchief clung to her chest as if she were scared her heart would give out like her father ’ s did. 
 
 “ How do you know you ’ re done crying, momma? ” She asked one day. 
 
 “ You cry until every last tear has fallen, baby doll. Then you know you ’ re done, ” she replied. `` But remember, there are many different kinds of pain and many kinds of ways of dealing with it.'' 
 
 That night, there was another storm. She woke up to her mother screaming, the back door slapping and banging against the siding with each gust. The kitchen was already full of dust and made the air feel thick. Against the howling, she could hear her mother ’ s shrill voice shouting into the sky, cursing with every other word. Then the shotgun went off, a sharp report against the pained moan of the wind, and Alice shrieked. Mama came back in with a bottle of daddy ’ s drink in her apron, her eyes dancing upon Alice and a smile curling on her face. 
 
 “ Hand me some more of those shells, ” mama said. 
 
 Alice obeyed, grabbing a child ’ s sized handful of shot and giving it to the half-mad woman. When she drew close, she realized mama smelled the same way daddy did on one of his bad nights but while daddy always got happy when he drank, mama got mad. It was the hint of madness that scared Alice the most, that feral thing hidden behind the normally tough veneer on her mama ’ s face fighting to come out. 
 
 “ What are you doing? ” She finally built up the courage to ask. 
 
 “ He won ’ t take this from us. Not what we built together. He thinks he can drive us away from here? I won ’ t spend a dime of that blood money, ” mama said. Then she turned and screamed into the storm. “ You hear me? We *won ’ t* leave! ” The rest of her words were lost when she stepped back onto the porch and fired. 
 
 Alice waited for her mother to return. Outside, the world moaned and the building groaned as if being pulled from its foundation. Plaster fell from the roof and the windows in the building sounded like a horde of school children were all gathered outside throwing rocks at the glass to get her attention. Then, her mother was back inside, but this time there was fear in her face. She set the shotgun on the table and poured herself another drink. 
 
 “ What ’ s out there mama? ” Alice asked when she finished her drink. 
 
 “ Your father, ” Mama shrugged, “ Looking for his last drink, but he won ’ t get it. Damn near broke us with his drinking and this here is the last bottle. ” 
 
 She held up the bottle with the amber liquid inside and swirled it around. Then she laughed and poured herself another shot. It smelled sour and she made a face when she poured back the liquid. Then the fear returned and she turned back towards the storm. 
 
 “ Do you hear that? ” She asked. The wildness had returned to her eyes. “ Tell me you heard that! ” 
 
 “ Heard what? ” Alice asked, but mama ignored her. 
 
 “ Go away, Frank. You ’ re dead. ” Mama said, racking the shotgun. “ I made *sure* of that. You can ’ t take this away from us. *I won ’ t let you*. ” 
 
 Alice watched her step back out the door. The shotgun blasted twice more into the storm with her mother calling out to her dead husband. 
 
 In the morning, it was over. A soft layer of dust settled over everything, including her mother who was snoring at the table. The bottle of father ’ s drink was gone and with it her mama ’ s anger. She smiled when she saw Alice, rubbing at her eyes to make sure they were still attached. Later that day, the postman made another delivery, but this time Mama didn ’ t cry. 

