Today I am working on another 50-word story to submit to Fiftywordstories.com. It's harder than you'd think, but I like the challenge. The inspiration for this short piece was a flash fiction story about Fila holding another map. Something about a map seems to conjure a story. Here's the 50-word story, followed by the longer (somewhat different) story that inspired it:
Final Gamble
Fila
stood by the Packard as a hot wind blew gritty dirt devils around her. She
stared at 26 acres of Blackland prairie, a gambler’s final gamble. A gusher, he
vowed, Texas gold. Fila saw only dirt, a dry hole gone bust, but it was risky
to tell him no. (50 words)
Winds of Change
Fila stood beside her stepfather’s Model A at the side of the
gravel road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. The wind blowing in
from West Texas stirred up fine grit and warned of a coming storm. Looking up at
an ominous sky, loose tendrils of hair escaped her bun, and she wished she had
worn a hat. “Never mind,” she thought, “I won’t be here long.” She needed to
get this over with.
In her hands Fila gripped a surveyor’s map with property
specifications for the 26 acres her husband was determined to buy. Fila had
learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila
was opposed to leaving Plano for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was
convinced the construction in a booming city would mean more work for him and
more money to educate their four boys.
Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George dug
in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his
determination. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to
drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property. They
never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every
step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.
Fila pushed aside doubt as she took in what she could see of
the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently; the detritus of a past
cotton crop swirled in the wind, little whirlwinds whipping across the ground.
A small grove of pecan trees bending in the west wind bordered a field where a
donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep
beside him in spite of the wind and the dust. Fila smiled at the sight and
wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.
Through the dust, she took in the boundaries of the fields
and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a
sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell
shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct
across the Trinity River was built.
With a keen sense of value and potential, Fila turned her
eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she
stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a
covered porch entrance and windows across the front. Fila would prefer a
south-facing home with its back to the winter winds, but she was glad for the
mature live oak tree that stood not far from a stone wall separating the yard
from the field to the west of the house.
Sighing, she said to the god of winds, who may or may not
have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”
Turning back to the car, and clutching the map to her chest,
she leaned into the wind, glad to put this visit behind her. She took one last
look, obscured now by rain drops as big as dimes. She knew she must resign
herself to the move, must give in to the winds of change. Yet, in her heart she
feared that this was an ill wind, solving nothing.
[Word count 556]
