MorgueFIle 2020 October file0002096044980
Clem Rogers was outriding on the drive when a twister began to bear down on the herd. Before he knew it he was caught up in the whirling vortex. He awoke rather battered but alive in a dry gulch.
As he lay there trying to come to his senses, a rider wearing some odd blue denim trousers came across him. She was tolerably pretty, but Clem wondered why she was dressed like a man.
“You okay?” the newcomer asked. “Can’t believe you survived. I saw you fall and thought you’d have been killed.”
“I reckon I’ve been better,” Clem responded.
The stranger dismounted, and aided Clem to the horse and helped him to mount. He then led the horse to a ranch house about a mile away.
“I’m Donna, by the way,” she said as they made their way.
“Good to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Clem Rogers.”
As they approached the house, Clem saw a blue pickup in the drive, and a strange metal dish on the side of the house.
“Miss Donna, what is that thing?” he asked nodding towards the truck.
“You must have taken some serious bang to the head if you can’t recognise a truck.”
As they entered the house two teenagers sat on a couch watching television. Clem blinked a couple of times, but decided that he must be hallucinating. Maybe Donna was right about the head injury.
She led him into the kitchen and told him to sit at the table.
“Do you want some coffee?” she asked.
“That would be mighty kind of you,” he repiled.
She then scooped some grounds from a jar and placed them into the cappuccino maker.
“What in tarnation is that contraption?”
“It’s a coffee maker,” she replied.
“My word, why don’t you just make it in a pan?” he asked.
“Just boil it up,” he replied.
“That sounds disgusting,” she said.
“Guess I got used to it that way out on the drive.”
“You know – the cattle drive,” Clem elaborated.
“Goodness you don’t look that old. There hasn’t been a drive near here since the 30s.”
“How can that be Ma’am, they didn’t start till they brought the railroad to Abilene?”
“What year do yo think this is?” she asked with some concern in her voice.
“Ain’t it 1888?”
This story was inspired by the FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER prompt, but is well over a hundred words too long for the challenge.