Flakes of corn husk float down covering everything in earthy snow.
Corn dust hangs thick in the air like dry fog. The looming grain bin's rumbling breaths. Dust coats the windows, the floor, the counters, our skin, our lungs, our minds.
You lick your lips. It tastes like husk. It's getting cold out. Some use propane, but corn is cheaper.
The faint scream as yellow chars to black. Thankful for the heat, regretful of the loss.
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Midwestern Gothics
FantastiqueA collection of short stories I've come up with because it's just like that here.
