The winds roar and whoosh like the voices of the native Americans cleared or killed off to provide this cornscape for the poor white farmers. Tax free five years, free land gives. The military got to profit too. Payed to clear out the human animals who had been herded here from richer lands just a few years before. Make the corn roll on forever, waving like an ocean. Let he who walks behind the rows bless our crop. Ia-men.
There's Grandpa at the barber shop chatting with the locals. Chedder Hollins is next to him. They talk about the weather. About the new Soda shoppe in the city some 24 miles west. Chedder went there last weekend. He said he felt so pepped after trying a drought of strawberry Murple soda. Tasted like rat poison and burned corn. But he says he felt warm and soft and heavy. Happy and peaceful. But as he drank more of the stuff he began to feel energized. The hairs on the back of his head stood up. He liked it. He danced all night and spent all his money.
Strange scents in the wind. The scents are incense from a secret tribe. They are still here, but not here. A nearby dimension. Still returning for rituals and to breeze the air of the land of birth.
Sometimes strange animals end up here in this space when they cross over with they're mind cola dance. When Kip was a child he encountered a Wood Fish.
Chedder Hollins stands in front of a big crude wooden plank fence. He tells a stupid racist Indian joke and a plank from the fence slams up into his ass. He squelches in pain. Long splinters are embedded. He laugh at the wide eyed comical eye out of water look of pain on his face....
Midnight shines with a yellow orange moon. Jugs are all about most of them empty.
It's so hot and muggy. It feels like you could just grab droplets of moisture in your palm. A dog is barking somewhere far away. A low machine hum, barely perceptible. It goes on all summer every summer.