short-story – The CJBuzz

Pale in the Wheat

The fog never left that field—and something pale still waits among the wheat

In this town, no one speaks above a whisper — and the quiet watches.

August is ending, the air is cool, and the orchard is full of whispers...

Something is coming—something no roar can stop.

By cup four, Burt was in space, the chicken had wings, and I was sweating coffee. The story wrote itself. I just held on.

In memory of our sweet Lila.