The Blight

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 © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

Discover more of my Aethereal Musings.

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