I unlace my boots and leave them beside the others on the porch. The weather has made quagmire of both soil and sky.
Upon my sock-footed entrance Nathan, worrying at a pimple, glances up, "Anything?"
"Nothing."
Wind smatters sleet against the bunkhouse walls. "How long are we going to keep looking?"
Leaning towards the warmth of the fire I shrug.
Indigo spoons out the stew, hands me a bowl, "We'll try again tomorrow."
* * * * * *
Seed words:
Quagmire
Bunkhouse
Indigo
Pimple
YOU ARE READING
Nailed It! - flash and micro fiction
HumorVery short stories where I have (hopefully) "nailed it" in a handful of words. Comments and critiques welcome.
