Microfiction :Wheatfield

Episode 4 of the serial.


Whispering and a faint whimpering followed them as they slipped through the door next to the kitchen fireplace. It had once led to the barn, demolished now and replaced by a neat kitchen garden. A glass veranda opened onto the garden, much smarter than the rough old door with its iron bolts and heavy lock.

He turned the key, expecting rust and reluctance, but it turned smoothly with barely a click. After the warmth of the kitchen, the cold hit them, and he put his arm around her shoulders. The garden looked different from the unfamiliar angle, glowing with frost in the winter night as they hurried, keeping to the tree shadows, to the gate that led out into the fields.

“We’ve taken a wrong turn,” he said sharply when the path led only to a thick hedge of dog rose. She pulled him to the right, drawn by a sense of urgency and the whispering in her head.


Pulling back a hazel branch to reveal a gate propped ajar amid a tangle of brambles, she caught her breath. Beyond the gate the path continued, through tall golden stalks of summer wheat.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

11 thoughts on “Microfiction :Wheatfield”

      1. It’s taken me a long time to learn then! That’s a knack I didn’t know I had, but it’s true that the anxiety dreams about missing trains/exams or not being able to find something vital like a pair of shoes, always come out okay in the end now.

      2. I haven’t quite reached that point — I still miss trains, take exams in courses I never knew I was registered in, gradually lose my vision so I can’t tell where I am — all anxious dreams I have to solve by waking up!

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