The farmhouse is dark as we walk through the cornfield. The unearthly whistling chorus swells.
“Seasons pass, and Eli’s blight gets worse,” Ezra said.
“Since that fallin’ star,” I say, plucking a deformed cob.
It screams.
From the farmhouse, Eli screams back.
Copyright © 2019 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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