“The Trespasser”

He wasn’t from there, and as he passed crop after unrecognizable crop, the urge to stop overtook him. He pulled to the side of the road, and there he was, a grown-ass man sneaking into a field. He could have picked something near the road, but he walked down a row toward what appeared to be a grove. No matter where he was, he felt like a trespasser.  When quail flushed from the brush near the sugarcane patch, he fell to the ground, thinking someone was shooting at him or that he had stepped into some kind of trap designed to catch a creature with no natural predators. His fear fell on him like a net, and he stumbled, then sat. Whenever he did something out of the ordinary, he thought of death. Who would find his body? What would they think? Surely, there would be an autopsy, some aged person parsing through him, looking for causes in the chaos of his corpse. Actually, he knew nothing about autopsies, not even what one learns from cop shows on TV. And what if he were only on the brink of death? Would the person who found him attempt to drag him back, or? He crawled into the small thicket of sugarcane and squatted until dark. Finally, he managed to tug two stalks from the mud. He carried one in each hand. Back at his car, he searched the trunk for something to cut one of them open, but he only had a tire tool. When he missed the cane, sparks flitted from the pavement. The hammering sounded like someone trying to break into the very world. The mangled mess reminded him of ribbons. He sniffed it and forced his tongue out as if it might melt in the moonlight. The sweetness grabbed at his breath. He held it in his mouth until he got his bearings.

Related Posts
Filter by
Post Page
The Story Behind the Story Essays/Articles (all) Why I Write Featured Fiction New Fiction Advice / Suggestions
Sort by

“We Need Stories”

I enjoy the tales we need to tell, the restless narratives that keep people from drinking bleach or
2019-09-20 23:44:43
rusheby

0

Why I Write: Jim Powell

Old School Mission [for “Why I Write”] I’m writing this essay in March 2018, eleven days out of an ele
2019-09-16 23:45:09
jepowell

0

“Pen — or Pencil — For Hire”

If the unfinished manuscript in your desk drawer is anything to go by, you have succumbed on occasion to the
2019-09-13 23:43:58
learmont

0

“Been Ingenious”

People called Ricky ingenious whether they thought it true or not. Most folks choose to remain blithely ignorant to
2019-09-09 11:06:24
jason-graff

0

“Bellwether”

Through the seventeenth century, Europeans believed ringing church bells would
2019-09-06 23:43:12
gagesaylor

0

“Seven Signatures”

I   Not his name or a first crush or even the harsh assertion of a cuss word but an arrow, carved
2019-09-04 09:41:26
acjones

0

“The Colors of Pain”

“Gut pain’s always the worst,” says the medic. I could tell him he’s right, but I want to keep my pain p
2019-09-02 10:58:28
skip

0

“There is Always So Much”

What we did that summer: we hung around torn-down barns and took photos of each other with that old camera and
2019-08-30 23:41:29
mattliebowitz4

0

Banding Together: Capturing Female Friendship in Fiction

On the last weekend of last November, I flew home to LA to see a band. My former roommate picked me up from the
2019-08-28 08:17:11
lfchristianson

0

Jordan Sanderson

About Jordan Sanderson

Jordan Sanderson earned a PhD from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi. His work has appeared in several journals, including NANO Fiction, Caketrain, Double Room, Gigantic Sequins, and The Oklahoma Review, and he is the author of two chapbooks, Abattoir (Slash Pine Press, 2014) and The Formulas (ELJ Publications, 2014). Jordan lives on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and teaches English at Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College.