Category Archives: Writing

New Flash Fiction

The scent possesses him; urges him on.
Dashing through the grasses he arrives panting at the copse.
Eyes reflect the dim night illumination.
He stalks forward in reply to her low growl.

New Flash Fiction

He’s excited; practically shaking.

“World-changing … that’s what it is, you know? It’s fast enough to distribute new editions every day.”

She doesn’t turn from her work. “Your colleagues are in the front room.”

“Things will be different soon, Love … better!” He nearly trips over himself as he rushes out of the kitchen.

She stokes the kitchen fire. The embers have almost died out.

New Flash Fiction

Lowering the telephone ear piece to its cradle, she saunters to the window and strains to catch a glimpse of him in the late afternoon crowd three stories down. He ought to be rounding the corner at the next block soon.

The clouds break as she rests curled up on the window seat, eyes soft and dreamy. Dust floats lazily across the room through the window shaped sunlight. Her hand gently finds its way to her belly as she hums a soft tune from her childhood.

New flash fiction

Keeping cadence with the breeze, she sways off the corner of the front porch, holding the post lightly to keep from falling. Her feet swivel on the edge of the floor boards a few inches above the cracked earth. Morning sunlight filters through her dark, ribbon-bound curls. The warmth hasn’t left the early autumn air.

She swings forward, lightly depositing a kiss on my forehead, then my lips. She loiters there.

“Don’t worry about the harvest, Love. Things will work out.”

Her lilac fragrance becomes her. She deserves more than a dusty front porch and a bottle of perfume. The boys race off to the barn while my barefoot moppet trundles past with her rag dolly.

I dread sending them east. Winters are so harsh.

New flash fiction

The frayed jute rope tightens audibly, digging fiercely into his skin while thin, grey field mice scuttle away with scarce bits of corn from another sparse harvest. He peers out a crack in the battens. Dust and chaff freed from the rafters filter through the late autumn shafts of light. His vision resembles an old black and white television set darkening to a point of light. Here, Kitty … puss puss puss …

“Frank! … Franklin! … ” She calls out of obligation, not worry. Drunk in the barn again, no doubt … … worthless son of …

A thin-ribbed barn cat lazily rubs his hovering boots, missing his scratch behind the ears, not noticing the man’s swollen, purple fingers.