The Promised Land


They alighted the rickety jeeps at midnight. The man to whom they had bequeathed their money pointed the way forward and quickly vanished.

They walked through the desert, wary and weary, under the cloud cover. Abuela was the first to die. Thirst. His wife had developed a septic wound and passed away next. His darling Nina, his hija, succumbed soon after to the cold.

They found him hugging his daughter’s body a mile from the border.

Miguel looks at the Red, White, and Blue flying proudly as he sips the cola provided by an ICE agent.

He doesn’t see any promises.  

Written for the picture prompt provided by J. Hardy Carroll for the weekly Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Please find other entries here


  1. The recent photograph would once have been enough to inspire immediate action. Alas, it seems nothing can now inspire those in power to act in the interests of all people and not just themselves.


  2. A good story, Varad, with great description. This is the horrible way it happens. We’re supposed to look the other way and not notice I guess. I, for one, can’t do that. I don’t know how some Americans sleep at night. Some people have their own personal walls. between them and reality. —- Suzanne

    Liked by 1 person

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