Dandelion Wine
She was sitting on the rock wall just on the other side of the bridge, whoever she was.
He could see her there from his side of the stream but, until he was most of the way across, all she was to him was a pair of legs.
This story had a pretty simple origin (and zero connection to Ray Bradbury’s story of the same name). On my way to a writing conference where I knew I would need to be creating something new to workshop while I was there, I was trying to run different ideas through my head.
Somewhere in Vermont I drove past a field that was almost pure yellow with dandelions, except for a lone set of tire tracks cutting across it—parallel lines of green that wound across the field towards the treeline before disappearing over a rise.
Everything else spun off of that.
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