Tommy Lee’s Tract

Near the top of Copperhead Ridge, I helped Mabel Ann down from the truck. Forty acres of our own, a wedding gift from Pa.

I taught Mabel to malt barley, crush corn, add yeast, and strain. She’d taught me so much more. Green earth was wondrous; stars made me weep; nothing compared to Mabel’s belly swelling under my hand.

Must have been the distillation smoke. A man wearing a pistol on his hip and a badge had handcuffed Mabel, too heavy to run. Home from hunting, I raised my Winchester. There’s right and there’s wrong.


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: 100-word stories.

photo credit: Tim Livingston