The man in the tractor

Another flash fiction from Felicity at I don’t often do flash fiction, but this week’s prompt was particularly interesting. It could have gone in so many different directions.

The prompt:  “The man in the tractor”.


Edge of the field, edge of the road. Every day, from 8 am to 3:30. Waiting. Difficult in the snow, smothering in the summer. The tractor had air and a heater. It didn’t matter. What else was waiting but endurance?

“I’ll come back,” she said. She kissed him full on the mouth, and he could taste her tears on his lips, dribbling onto his chin. Not quite salty, but the taste of already-gone.

His eyes were open when they kissed. Her eyes were closed, and her lashes were wet, clumped with mascara. He wanted to remember her face before she left, every pore, every freckle, every line the sun had drawn.

And so he waited, every day, from 8 am to 3:30, at the edge of the road where she could find him. She promised she’d come back to him.

He promised he’d wait. Continue reading “The man in the tractor”



Flash fiction challenge  from Felicity at The prompt: Unspoken


A yank, a twirl, and she took me in her arms. Her nose smashed against my forehead. She was two inches taller than I, and the slope of the ground gave her advantage. It was a movement of clarity and pain, desire and uncertainty. Certainly not a Gone with the Wind motion, all cluttered with impulse and half-known instinct.


Don’t be a baby, it didn’t hurt.” She rubbed her nose and grinned. “This is serious. Do you want me or not?”

Her lips were moist, and her breath was bubblegum and orange soda pop.

But we’re cousins.”

Third cousins. Practically unrelatable. And it’s not like we’re going to get married and have retarded children. This is about having fun.” And because our faces were so close, I couldn’t tell if she was serious. Her eyes were bright and mischievous, but that was how she always looked. Her lips, though. I could taste them if I wanted to. But would that be right?

Numb, when she put my hands on her hips. “Pull me in closer,” she said.

There was no choice, she was the one pulling. Dizzy and unfocused. She rested her chin on my shoulder. Warmth like a melting stream of chocolate, inside, flowing over arteries and the wet flesh under flesh. Her breath, sugary and hot. I couldn’t think straight, or at all. She placed her mouth on mine and exhaled into my open mouth. I could taste the air she was done with, honeyed and warm as rising steam.

My hands rose to her waist, frantic but desperate not to move too quickly. I knew I would remember this, this urgency, this exploration. A softness and a hardness I didn’t know existed, a collision of differently tempered flesh. Her breasts crushed against my shallow chest, and they were as firm and as soft as rain clouds.

And then an explosion in my loins, like bleeding out desire. I shuddered and convulsed against her, my hips pressing into her to relieve the strain, holding onto the pleasure for as long as I could, but knowing it was fleeting; it would be gone, and then return even more urgent. I didn’t think I could stand being without the pleasure again.

The mind only thinks it knows what it wants; the body knows and shouts down all sense and reason.

She pushed away from me. Her eyes seemed darker, not their usual bright playfulness. She slid her hands down to her hips and brushed her jeans. Her blouse had shifted, exposing a pretty navel; she saw me looking, and straightened it.

I’m sorry,” I said.

For what?” She walked over to a pile of hay and collapsed like unfolded laundry. She swallowed hard and lay rigid, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.


Another piece of flash fiction from the prompt “Beauty” from Felicity Johns over at


It’s been on the mantel for so long, most people don’t see it. It’s the first thing I see upon waking, and the last thing before I set myself down at night.

A chunk of old driftwood carved into a frame. Our wedding photo. It’s yellowed and curled, but I still see it in color. You standing with a rose bouquet, holding onto it like a sword, and I looking so serious and terrified. We were both terrified, remember? We knew it was something solemn and fragile, no matter the vows. It was you and me becoming us. We were kids who barely understood the weight of that word. Us.

The years passed, the hair faded, the skin became fragile lacework. You wore pant suits and I wore bell bottoms. We danced to Glenn Miller and Steve Miller. We lost a baby in ’74 and I lost my job the next year. Rough years, hard years, but we came through them together, still us.

The ocean carved the frame that holds that first deep memory. The ocean still rolls, the frame still holds.

I close my eyes and I can still see the sweet beauty in your eyes and can hear the ocean rolling over and over, carving another piece of wood for another us. And it will remain, long after the flesh secedes.


Felicity at The Dark Night Chronicles challenged her readers to come up with a flash fiction piece with the prompt “Absence”. I don’t typically do flash fiction, but I thought I’d give it a shot. Ninety-nine words.


He walked down to the river. It was their place, of privacy, of love.

The riverbed dried up after three years of drought and there was nothing but cracked earth and a hollow wind that sounded like her voice.

Come to the river, it said, and he did. Every night.

She left him for the Purina salesman. Flirted right in front of him as he explained the lack of byproducts and nutrition.

He kept the house, the barn, the dogs. But he couldn’t keep her.

Come to the river, she said, every night, and so he did. Every night.