Declining Yore Kind Offah

We keep grandpa’s soul in that red jar.

Most of the family is here, actually, going back at least three gen’rations. Emily says when the sun hits ‘em right, you can see smoky shapes in the jars, sometimes little eyes. I ain’t never seen none o’ that stuff, but I believe her cause most all of the girls have the Sight.

Grandma had it too. We don’t have a jar for ‘er. She run orft the day ‘fore grandpa got hit by that truck.

Emily says I should quit yammerin’, and not ride home in yore car tonight.

Sorry, mister.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © G.L. MacMillan.