Flash Fiction Chronicles: The Farm and the Harvest

The boy’s house sat at the edge of the fen, surrounded by ochre fields of mud and dying wetlands grass. It was constructed on a bit of a rise which prevented it from getting flooded during high tide; his mother had brought him out here, away from prying and evil eyes. He was different, in a horrifyingly beautiful way but the world would most likely never understand. He sat contentedly eating his cereal, one slipper lazily dangling from the tip of the toes on his left foot. He watched through the window as his mother struggled with the harvesting equipment; try as she might, this land was not meant for vegan farming. The old combine was better suited to the wide fields of the northland rather than this moist earth; the woman worked it harder than any plow horse and her soot-covered body showed the severe price: the combine belched smoke as she pushed and pushed the gas pedal in order to coax it through the rows. She spent so much time fighting the machinery and the ground that she rarely had time for the boy. One last puff of smoke and the combine died, finally. He hoped she would spend time with him today; she could be caring when she allowed her anger to yield to love. However, today would not turn out as the boy hoped; the cop car racing up the rutted dirt road signaled the end of what little peace they had stored up for the last few years.

Written for the 1 March 2013 EDFsChronicles Daily Prompt. Check them out on Facebook also.