Quite The View

JournalWord: Peek.

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A flurry of white skirt sweeps the green grass as she saunters toward the apple tree at the edge of the field. Her horse totters obediently behind her, a peach mare that has trailed after her since foalhood. In her hand is an empty basket, soon to be filled with the red delicious apples. The field is hers, the only treasure left by her mother and father to support hers and her brother's livelihood. 

This time of year, the wheat is growing prosperously and the apples are beginning to ripen. Spring is ending and summer is taking its place. Once in the shade of the tree, she drops her basket and proceeds to tie her mare to the tree. Then glancing left and right, she hitches her skirt and begins to climb the tree. There are not many red ones as they are only starting to ripen. Plucking the scarlet apples, she drops them on the grass, aiming for the basket near the truck.

A few yards away, he is out riding on his mount, witnessing a curious scene. Apples are falling on the ground, some landing into a woven basket while a light mare is grazing peacefully on the grass. A closer inspection reveals that someone is picking apples and dropping them onto the ground. He edges nearer and finds a woman, balancing her feet on a bough while her hands reach for a shiny red apple at the end of the branch. 

She does not seem to realize his arrival, preoccupied she is with her task. From where he stands under the tree looking up, he is offered an interesting view up her skirt of her slender legs.

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Hello all!

How are all of ya'll this lovely day? :)

This is definitely going to be a busy (and stressful!) month ahead in June, but hopefully I'll keep strong (and sane) by keeping the stories coming! Recently I've become more focused on Protagonize and introducing myself to the world of collaboration, so check those out if you haven't :) They're kind of fun.

Keep bubbly!

Mera.

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Anything But Green

JournalWord: Shucking.

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The greens of the corn stalks are the only shade to the unrelenting blaze of the flaming ball, tossed into the vast blue and whites of foaming clouds on a cool glass of water. The flat lands of the farm are covered in a stand-still carpet of tall, swooping stalks, heavy with the late summer harvest. The hanging pods of the corn bob like sunflowers dancing to the hum of bumblebees, and wait for the grateful support of a calloused hand twisting the vegetable off it’s precarious cliff. 

I shimmy through the crop, picking, twisting, and placing ears into a basket chaffing my arm. I test the weight of the basket as I walk through the maize, hurriedly loading the wicker until my arm slacks from the picks. The shed is a shabby, worn but steady wooden structure in the middle of the maize. The peeling rustic red paint peeks through the emerald leaves, a sliver of unrequited love on an otherwise dry afternoon. The glitter of tools underneath crusts of mud lead me to the shed, and I take a moment to wipe the sticking sweat off my brow. The brown wheelbarrow beside the shed is half full of bright golden corn, cloaks of husks ripped off and piled beside a crouching girl. 

I trample through the clearing, sliding over the packed dirt with a conscious ease toward the girl, wicker basket between my sweaty hands. I drop the basket beside her tiny, three legged stool and reach for the empty basket beside her, eyes locked to her frayed pigtails. Her dark hair is frizzing in the heat, curling and sticking to the sides of her neck. She rips off a chunk of husk from an ear, revealing the shock of color hidden under layers of deceitful green. 

The muscles in her arm flexes the tan line on her forearm when she tosses away the corn’s cloak. Her raw, practiced hand grips and rips another portion of the cloak with a sharp yank from the corn, digging green stained fingertips into the layered leaves. The gilded kernels shine in the palm of her hand, a smile to her pressed chapped lips. I watch her cast the cleaned ear into the wheelbarrow with a twist of her faded, jean overalls and the habitual reach for another. 

I grip the handle of the empty wicker basket, shaking my head from the buzzing of the burning crickets. I tread back towards my section of the crop, smiling through the leaves in my face and chuckle.  

“She sure knows how to shuck.”

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