Memory
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I run through rows of corn taller than my twelve-year-old frame. The fuzzy, prickly stalks pull at my arms and legs and, occasionally slice like a paper cut into my skin. Somewhere, deep within the tidy rows, a bare circle of ground hides like an accidental fort…that magical spot where the tractor turned around and
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I miss writing and telling stories. The last few years really sucked the creative energy out of me and somewhere along the way, I decided I don’t have anything to say — anything worth saying, worth reading, anything that hasn’t already been written or read. Be that as it may, I miss words and stories.
The Wheat Princess 