Hay Everywhere

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ll, then leaned against it for a second or two. It had been a long hot day of trail rides and whiny children.</p><p id="7fde">“Hey.” Della’s hands landed on Anita’s shoulders and she pressed her thumbs into sore muscles. “You okay?’</p><p id="5b14">“Yeah.” Anita let her head fall forward as Della rubbed away some of the aches of the day. Electric shocks darted out from her hands to race down Anita’s arms and spark in her fingertips. “Just hot and tired.”</p><p id="b803">“You’re always hot,” Della whispered. Her lips brushed the curve of Anita’s ear. “Even with horse slobber all over your hair.”</p><p id="6cff">Anita laughed on a breathless gasp and turned to slide her arms around Della’s waist. “Really? Even with dust all over my face?”</p><p id="cead">“And hay <i>everywhere</i>.” Della slid a hand up under Anita’s shirt, making her gasp again. “I could spend <i>hours</i> finding it all.”</p><p id="f808">Anita shivered and leaned in, brushing her nose against Della’s. “Who knows where it’s all gotten? Could be anywhere.”</p><p id="5ace">Della smiled, then pulled back. The sounds of the next trail ride arriving filtered through the walls and Della stepped away. “Later,” she promised, and left the tack room.</p><p id="c85c">Anita took a minute to calm her breathing, then followed.</p><p id="1a2e"><i>Esther Spurrill Jones learned to read when she was four years old, and began writing shortly thereafter. She is a queer Christian poet, crafting with words to create ar

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t and music.</i></p><p id="906c"><a href="https://ko-fi.com/estherjones#"><i>Buy me a coffee!</i></a></p><div id="cf84" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-short-fiction-on-medium-c6353e17a57a"> <div> <div> <h2>Poetic Prose</h2> <div><h3>My little fictional corner</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*eqZyjjieihtNoZPW4owC8w.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><figure id="b32d"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/0*afWdeIFZV8e_5jRb.png"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><h2 id="9976">This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt This One Time, at Pride Camp</h2><div id="b22a" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/this-one-time-at-pride-camp-e7aedda68ac6"> <div> <div> <h2>This One Time, at Pride Camp</h2> <div><h3>On your marks, get set, write!</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*TF_52pKk_PN6lkUDlhjE2Q.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Flash Fiction

Anita dunked her ballcap in the horse trough, lifting it dripping to plunk it back on her head. Cool water trickled through her hair and ran down her neck, mixing with sweat and dust on her skin. She closed her eyes and sighed at the momentary relief from the oppressive heat. The smells of hay and sweat and manure tickled her nose.

As Anita turned away from the trough, Della shook her head at her. “You just put horse slobber all over your hair.”

Shrugging, Anita gathered Sabre’s reins and led the red bay gelding into the barn. “Don’t care,” she replied. “It’s too hot to care. Besides, I already have hay and dust everywhere.”

Anita put Sabre in his stall and slipped off his bridle and draped it over the saddlehorn. She unfastened the girth and lifted the saddle down and carried it to the tack room. Della reached the door at the same time, carrying a saddle as well. She dipped her head and stepped back to let Anita enter first.

Anita hoisted Sabre’s saddle onto the rack on the wall, then leaned against it for a second or two. It had been a long hot day of trail rides and whiny children.

“Hey.” Della’s hands landed on Anita’s shoulders and she pressed her thumbs into sore muscles. “You okay?’

“Yeah.” Anita let her head fall forward as Della rubbed away some of the aches of the day. Electric shocks darted out from her hands to race down Anita’s arms and spark in her fingertips. “Just hot and tired.”

“You’re always hot,” Della whispered. Her lips brushed the curve of Anita’s ear. “Even with horse slobber all over your hair.”

Anita laughed on a breathless gasp and turned to slide her arms around Della’s waist. “Really? Even with dust all over my face?”

“And hay everywhere.” Della slid a hand up under Anita’s shirt, making her gasp again. “I could spend hours finding it all.”

Anita shivered and leaned in, brushing her nose against Della’s. “Who knows where it’s all gotten? Could be anywhere.”

Della smiled, then pulled back. The sounds of the next trail ride arriving filtered through the walls and Della stepped away. “Later,” she promised, and left the tack room.

Anita took a minute to calm her breathing, then followed.

Esther Spurrill Jones learned to read when she was four years old, and began writing shortly thereafter. She is a queer Christian poet, crafting with words to create art and music.