Hint Fiction: Three

The Landing

Silhouettes sway under a hunter’s moon. Crouching in muck, Dad whispers, “Humans, returning after 40 years.” I ask, “What do they want?” He frowns. “Us.”

You Thought You Could Crush Her

Day lifts its tattered curtain; wind rips through wheat. Arms in air, nightgown clinging, she’s a dervish in the field, her rubied ax held high.

Rest Stop on the I-10

I snatch the baby and sprint, asphalt burning my naked feet, into the willows. The mother wails. The father bellows. Too late. She’s mine now.