…for writers, anyway.
High corn, end of season, just before harvest. Always.
Helpless corn. Plumes of corn stalks tower above your head. You can’t see the combine reel spinning closer and closer as you struggle desperately through tightly packed rows, robbed of breath, your skin flayed by the simple crop. The throb of the motor is on top of you!
Flattened corn. A perfect circle punctuates acres of tall, green growth, stalks laid down in an intricate pattern as if spun just once by a blender. Terrified, you look up and around. Nothing. Then a rustle of sound and a flash of movement speeds your already pounding heart. The cicadas fall silent.
Eyes in the corn. A multitude of tiny red eyes, low and intent. Teeth bared, weasels slither close, hungry for fresh blood. Soon, they’ll surround you...
Don’t go in the corn!
Ah shucks, it’s all been done before. Or has it? It's October. Be afraid.
By Janet Fogg