He gazed out the passenger window, captivated by a farmhouse as it passed them by, the mood in the car foul to match the day. A flag, outstretched but folded upon itself matted with rain, splashed a muted stain against a pewter sky. A pond stretched, roadway to stoop with grass tufts lily padding the muddy surface offering no dry path to the farmhouse door. To the left, a pint-sized outhouse, adorned with a carved crescent moon, decorated the garden encircled by soggy mums awaiting deadheading on a sunny day. The mist so fine that the wipers squealed as they juddered across windshield, pause, judder, pause, squeal. A battle of wills, would she kill the wipers if he never asked?

Written in response to GirlieOnTheEdge’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt: FARM. Visit her site and give it a try.

Photo by Lucas Pezeta