AFTER THE RUSH The dry cornstalks rustled in the breeze so loudly he could barely hear her. "I said I'd had enough rice and beans already." He turned and spat dust. "What's so terrible about that?" She met his eyes square-on, squinting. "It's what we're having for dinner. I told you this morning. And just now." She hugged the lunch pail like it was a kitten. He looked over her shoulder and down the row, swaying stalks converging into a solid mass of yellow-gold, the color her hair had been when they first met. "I didn't ask at breakfast. I'm just all riced out." How long ago had it been now, ten years? Before everything started falling apart. Before the smash-flat storms of black rain with months of drought between. She interrupted his memories, flat-voiced. "Too bad. It keeps longer than anything else. Market day was three weeks ago and there's another week to go." Daring him to
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.