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  • Jeff Bacon

Dust Devils

Violent swirling funnels of sand and dirt, dad called them dust devils. When we would see them, my dad would call out and wave. I would ask him why he was so friendly to the dust devils. He smiled, but never answered.


We went to town to buy supplies but had to stop at the bank first. Two men followed us into the building. They pulled out guns as they screamed for everyone to get on the floor. They cleaned out the teller drawers, then heard the sirens. One robber grabbed me off the floor. My dad jumped up to take me back. The other thief pointed his gun at my dad and fired. He fell to the ground as the bank robbers ran for the door with me.


They threw me in a van along with the money. The tires squealed as they headed out of town. They turned down a graveled road which led to the middle of the desert. A dust devil came out of nowhere and lifted the van into the air. The van flipped over and slid into the sand. I pulled my foot out from under the front seat. I felt a pull on my shirt as one man drug me out of the van. I tried to stand, but the pain was intense. I couldn’t walk.


The man that shot my dad pulled his gun out and told me to close my eyes. I refused. Just as he pulled the hammer back, two dust devils came around the van. The dust devils veered straight for the robbers. The devils engulfed the men. They spun faster and faster as the sand blasted the skin off their bodies. When the devils finished, there was nothing but a pile of bloody bones left.


The police showed up with my dad in the back seat of one car. A police officer opened the door and my dad stepped out of the car. His left arm was in a sling. I ran into dad’s arm overjoyed he was alive. Three dust devils whirled over to us.


Dad lowered his head. “Son, turn around and thank your ancestors.”


I turned and faced the dust devils. The sand formed faces. I recognized one as my grandfather. “Thank you.”

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