Daily Flash Fiction Challenge

Abigail relished solitude. God knew she had little of it. Always there were children around, wanting. Or community ladies, watching, eager to report to the bishop if her skirt hems got too short or her thoughts too worldly. Solitude meant freedom, and God knew she had little of that too.

Everyone was down at the Whitmer farm helping the family raise a barn after the last one was destroyed by fire along with two horses, a few goats, and a massive sow whose crackling flesh lent the disaster a delicious aroma. Abigail had sent the children ahead with baskets of bread and jars of apple butter while she lingered behind under the guise of letting her famous Shoofly pie cool a bit longer.

Resting a hand on her swollen belly, Abigail gazed out the window. Her mind craved a daydream. She saw endless farmland rolling out for acres, brown and brittle after an unusually dry season. The Whitmers were not the only victims of fire this summer. Drought had turned the land against them. A grey bird flitted about the yard. Dark-eyed Junco. She remembered the name from the Birds of Pennsylvania book her sister gave her several Christmases ago. If Abigail were a bird, she would not spend her time hopping around here. She would fly far from this place, over the bridge to the highway where the English cars roared, moving faster than anyone here ever would.

With a sigh, Abigail shook herself from her reverie. She’d best turn back to her work now, idle hands and all that. She finished wrapping the pie and checked to make sure her bonnet was not amiss. For comfort she felt the square outline of the matchbox hidden in her apron pocket before heading out the door to join the others.

(300 words)