Fast Fiction Challenge: The Golden Wellies
Title: The Golden Wellies
Word: bumpkin
Challenger: Brian Douglas Ahern
Length: 200 words exactly The letter in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, the bumpkin sat on his porch and contemplated life’s changes and fortunes.
The sun had long since passed overhead, and there was a gentle breeze that ruffled the grass on his front lawn as the shadows lengthened.
He placed the bottle on the ground and directed his attention to the letter, reading it for the fifth time that day.
As he finished, a wry smile appeared on his features, revealing an intelligence that had been lacking moments earlier. Then, as he took a sip of the beer, his mind went back to pondering and his face reverted to its earlier incarnation of pleasant vacancy.
Shapes blocked the sun, low down on the horizon, and as people passed the porch, there was a brief nod to each, respectful though hardly friendly.
Afternoon turned to evening and his readings of the letter took less time, the gaps between them growing longer; afterwards he’d glance towards the kitchen, wherein stood two Wellington boots, each a lustrous shade of yellow.
It had genuinely never occurred to him that they’d want them back.
The bumpkin chewed on a length of corn, and considered.
© Lee Barnett, 2006
Word: bumpkin
Challenger: Brian Douglas Ahern
Length: 200 words exactly The letter in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, the bumpkin sat on his porch and contemplated life’s changes and fortunes.
The sun had long since passed overhead, and there was a gentle breeze that ruffled the grass on his front lawn as the shadows lengthened.
He placed the bottle on the ground and directed his attention to the letter, reading it for the fifth time that day.
As he finished, a wry smile appeared on his features, revealing an intelligence that had been lacking moments earlier. Then, as he took a sip of the beer, his mind went back to pondering and his face reverted to its earlier incarnation of pleasant vacancy.
Shapes blocked the sun, low down on the horizon, and as people passed the porch, there was a brief nod to each, respectful though hardly friendly.
Afternoon turned to evening and his readings of the letter took less time, the gaps between them growing longer; afterwards he’d glance towards the kitchen, wherein stood two Wellington boots, each a lustrous shade of yellow.
It had genuinely never occurred to him that they’d want them back.
The bumpkin chewed on a length of corn, and considered.
© Lee Barnett, 2006