Wrangler

(This week's photo prompt for http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/flash-fiction/barbed-wire-and-bulls/ ...)

Two efforts this time (to make up for being gone last week)

Wrangler

Leather gloves fit comfortably over his roughened and calloused hands. His chest and shoulder muscles rippled effortlessly under a loose-fitting denim shirt as he pulled the last strand of barbed wire taut. Only a thin bead of sweat dripping from the headband of his white Stetson suggested that the afternoon sun was taking a toll. Effortlessly he hung the coil of wire over the fence post, and stepped back. He had easily capped one entire side of the Enclosure with wire. Natives now would have as much trouble getting out as Settlers would have in getting in to get them.

Something's Coming

He believed it was a sign of Bad Times coming, but no one else agreed. Each morning, or maybe every third morning, he thought there was a new stretch of fencing in place. The coil of barbed wire was always looped over the last fence post. Just as it had been the previous morning. Except it was a new fence post, and the wire extended ten feet further than it had before. No one else seemed to notice. Maybe the orange water or the bread shortages concerned them more. But something bad was coming. Of that he was very sure.

Reaping The Harvest

(4/20/12 photo prompt for Madison Woods Friday Fictioneers ...)

Predictable. It's simply a question of selecting the proper seed. Just as we'll never bear the fruit of love by sowing fear and mistrust, so too will we never savor full and luscious flavors by using artificial fertilizers to speed the growing process. The trap must be carefully set.

This one fits the bill.

Wet moss and damp mud stimulates their enhanced sense of smell. An addictive craving for water draws them like bees to nectar. The drip must be slow to hold them still and in one place. Once they're relaxed, the net falls silently, and they are ours.

Sitting In The Sun

(This week’s photo prompt for Madison Woods Friday Fictioneers ...)

"Kristen, how well do you remember your mother?"

"Not much, Dad. Why?"

"Just wonder sometimes. Your mom and I used to sit on this bench."

"You did? Is that why we're here?"

"I think so. I haven't been here in a long time."

"What was it like?"

"It was fast. There wasn't time to think. Too many questions, so much uncertainty, so hard to commit. Things slowed here, for a while. But sooner or later, we always had to go back through that tunnel."

"Was it worth it?"

"Absolutely. Look where it got me! Sitting in the sun with you."

Sunrise at War Eagle Creek

The sun peaked through the morning mist over War Eagle Creek, like it had every day for thousands of years. A yearning but melancholy silence was pierced briefly by a sharp and rattling cry from a kingfisher. One last drop of dew fell from a low hanging branch into the creek, casting a ripple that arced outward, forever. Palpably frozen in time, a simple handful of soil embodied serenity.

Casually tossing the dirt over his shoulder, Jack hauled himself onto the backhoe. Its motor roared to life. He methodically spent the rest of the day knocking trees into the creek.