Hells Bells

Hells Bells
Location
Heart of the Heart of the Country
Birthday
February 01
Bio
Book editor, parent, MFA in poetry from a land far, far, away--and a long, long time ago . . . I'm not a psychologist, but I play one on TV.

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AUGUST 13, 2010 10:19AM

Short Fiction

Rate: 19 Flag

old-front-porch1

Sitting across from him in the pickup,

she realized she was tired of him.

She decided he was stupid, really,

his grip on the gearshift, cruel. 

 

 

Day after day they fought,

and afterwards he drove the back roads

with his shotgun, watching the clouds roll in in

the same dun-color as field.

When he stopped the pickup to shoot,

quail burst from the weeds,

wings slapping air in strange flight.

 

 

So he went to her house to explain,

but she argued with him, nervous,

propping the screen door open with her hip,

fooling with the buttons on her dress.

 

 

Walking back to his pickup,

he heard the distant whirr of a tractor

moving slowly through the fields,

blades turning black dirt over

like an idea.

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Comments

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The corn around here is scary tall--kind of "Children of the Corn" corn. Guess that makes me feel all Midwestern Gothic.
Isn't that a line from Oklahoma: "The corn is as high as a murderous eye" . . . . Perfect ending to this.
It sounds very Midwestern Gothic, I love it. What a wonderful poem. I am happy I found your blog.
blades turning black dirt over/like an idea

Being in the fields too long can do funny things to your thoughts. The line about his grip on the gearshift says so much...
I wanted to to go on here.
I protest.
It ended too soon. Great writing tho'
transported... yep, i was. i heard the quail.
This gave me a chill, Ms. Bells...well done...xoxoxox
good riddance...he wasn't deep enough for her, i'm sure. rated with straw dangling from my mouth!
This is such an interesting style. I like it...glad I found you.
Intriguing HB. My conclusion would be that the "idea" like black dirt turning over would be murder? Very well done.
It's pretty clear to ME what happens next, but of course I wrote the thing . . .
I liked the poem a lot. You use simple language to evoke much and pick the right image to convey the feeling.
but she argued with him, nervous,

propping the screen door open with her hip,

fooling with the buttons on her dress.
When the corn is as high as it is right now, it feels like walls of corn . . . for miles . . . and yeah, "Children of the Corn." Perfect spooky hot-summer poem . . .
Cool poem. I kind of like corn myself, but then, I don't know any better.
Cool poem. I kind of like corn myself, but then, I don't know any better.
I like where/that she props the screen door open with her hip.
I just stumbled onto your blog, and I love this poem. R-
"blades turning black dirt over
like an idea."

This is a brilliant image.
Well, if you don't have any idea, something like an idea will have to do.
This is art...in its truest form..very impressive..not that I am an authority..lol Loved this.