New Flash Fiction

Northwestern Kansas, and particularly Decatur County, was easy to get around. Two major highways bisected the county. Highway 83 ran north-to-south, and 36 east-to-west. 36 would take you to Denver if you followed it into the sunset.

From there, the county was subdivided into a one-mile square grid. Each square was commonly called a ‘section’, and each had a numerical designation. Quality varied, but the majority of section boundaries had at least a trail if not a decent gravel road. Frequent road signs also worked off the numerical grid, further simplifying navigation.

I decided to set off down Hollywood Boulevard, the gravel road that ran south a mile east of and parallel to 83. While I had somewhere to head, there was nowhere I needed to be, so steaming down the gravel gave me a chance to lollygag a bit and take in the sights.

The smaller farms were the best indicator that summer harvest truly was just around the corner. Combines were being greased, fueled, and panels were being closed and latched. Windows would be washed next. They’d be taking tests to town once the dew went off.

Wheat had to be a certain moisture percentage before it could be harvested and safely stored. The process happened quickly even under normal conditions, and this year’s La Niña hadn’t slowed things down. Harvest would come and go in a week or less if the weather held, which it was predicted to do.

I pulled into the Lewis place, mostly because I saw Norman walking toward his three ancient silver combines, parked military style in the grass in front of his shop. He had a roll of paper towels under his arm and a bottle of window cleaner in his hand, weapons of the trade for the coming battle.

The blast of cool air that came as I rolled down the window removed any trace of drowsiness from the night shift I’d already worked.

“What do you think, Norm?” I asked as I idled alongside him.