Them dogs: Ears just a flopping, woofing in that gloomy way that they do, sad eyes and everything. She had seen it before: The beasts chased people into the sky and managed to snatch them down no matter how high they thought they could float. Six of them that got to know every living soul on the plantation in case any of those souls tried to drift. But so often the smell of the field calmed her and if she had to be in the damn Big House with Paul and his family, then it was best she was in the space farthest from them. She wanted to hate the fact that she was made to sleep there on the porch, low to the ground on some makeshift bed she piled together herself from the hay she got from Samuel and Isaiah, whom she referred to as The Two of Them. On the other side of the river, which seemed farther away than it was, a mess of trees stood so close together that no matter how hard she squinted, she couldn't see past the first row of them. There, the people, when permitted, would scrub themselves down in the sometimes muddy water under the watchful gaze of the man whose name Maggie stopped saying for a reason. Several rows of trees marked the end of the field and gave way to sandy ground that opened onto the bank of the Yazoo River. Beyond it, a field of wildflowers bursting with every color, but the blues were the ones that were perfect enough to hurt feelings. Though it was enclosed and provided views out onto Ruth Halifax's garden. Oh, she slept on the back porch with the animals. She climbed out of the pallet and rolled her eyes at the hounds that lay on the floor by her feet. The Halifaxes each had their own way of communicating their displeasure, some less cruel than others. The sky was still dark, but she laid in her hay pallet an extra moment, knowing it could cost her. It became her secret language, living just below the audible one, deeper behind her tongue. She learned to do that, whisper low enough in her throat that an insult could be thrown and the target would be none the wiser. She mumbled the curse to herself, but it was meant for other people. But yes, there it was, snapped around her ankle, clinking nevertheless.

This house is a fucking burial place, Maggie whispered, before it was time to go to the other room, the kitchen that she was chained to even though not a single link could be seen.

The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr.