It seemed like just yesterday that she was racing across the prairie holding tight to the mane of her nag, her own hair blowing wildly in the wind. Seasons had come and gone, lives had changed, hers especially. Frontier living demanded a sturdy resolve which she'd developed when life forced her hand, but it came undone as they all dropped off one by one with timing so cruel that grieving for one hadn't ended when it began anew. She didn't know how to hack it anymore and had left her horse where he'd fallen more than a week ago. The wind kicked up outside, a black blizzard was closing in and she hoped the whole homestead would be swept away with this one. Familiar sounds twisted and rumbled into something else, something off. A glance out the window settled her hunch and she stood with wide eyes wondering what the sam hill was actually creepin up. Everything swayed in the wind, debris pelted the windows, and that cyclone of darkness made it's way ever closer. She held onto the doorknob thinking that the whole shack might rip free from the groundwork and fly away Kansas style, but it all fell silent. There was still a light, dusty breeze when she went onto the porch and no explanation on God's green earth for what she was seeing. She decided in that instant that there was nothing to lose. Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.


Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.