I've heard it told that the corn field is where the secrets grow. That down, towards the earth, concealed by rows and rows of crop, fibs, rumors and fabrications split the ground like weeds. And there they lay, hidden, until someone lost in the maize finds them and trips(more) over them, tearing them up and out of the ground to be exposed to the world. And that first lie comes out, so they start to dig deeper, right down into the ground to find all the other lies, but they always dig straight down instead of out. So the corn field is full of holes and lies, and then no one understands why the corn prices rise.(less)
1. Myself. I have it all figured out, if I wish myself out into the corn field* I will then have peace and quiet and will be able to write to my hearts content. I will also be(more) able to catch up on reading everything here I haven't had time to read yet.
*Said corn field to include unlimited amounts of sweet milky hot tea, cigarettes, and at least one cat.(less)
Two lanes of evergreen trees were separated by a river of gravel that was called a driveway. The gravel flowed back towards a large, cozy house filled with memories and the smell of old people. Back behind that was a barn that, in their younger years, they had transformed(more) into a working house. That is where we stayed. We spent our free time ruling a house of our own. One that smelled of perfume and pizza, which we filled with the sounds of movies, music, laughter, and the whisper of secrets.
One secret was that we were not your average teenage girls. Sure. We gossiped and watched movies and hung out. We dressed up in an attempt to be hot and did our hair and makeup. We cried and laughed and banged our feet against the legs of tables just like everyone else.
But on warm, moonlit nights we would leave our barn-turned-house. We did not have to sneak out. After all, we ruled there. We slipped on shoes, slipped out the front door, and followed the yard back behind the house. The yard turned into a corn field. It did not matter that the old people in the house did not own this field. At perfect points of the season, when the weather was just right, the corn had been harvested and left behind a field of cut, dried plants and ruined ground. There we would sing and dance. We played tag, even at our age, and jumped over the ankle-high rows of left over corn stalks. We howled at the moon and told the world it was ours. Those nights stretched beyond the edge of the corn field. We were young. Infinite. Immortal. (less)