tall corn

aceofalmonds  asked:

Hello! I read (and enjoyed!) the story you posted of your grandpa and his tree disposal methods, and so was looking for the story you mentioned of your other grandpa menacing a peach tree with a baseball bat, but can't seem to find it. Halp?

That would be because I haven’t posted it yet!  Many people have requested the story mentioned in the tags “Grandpa Menaces a Peach Tree With A Baseball Bat”, So here it is, with a side of “Grandpa Menaces The Iowa Relatives With Giant Corn”

**

For the Full Context of this tale, you have to understand how my dad’s side of the family got to America in the first place.  Prior to 1917, they were all farmers of limited success that migrated from county to county, trying not to starve, until a covey of the Fitzpatricks heard that they could be shoveling shit in Grand Americay, far away from the people they owed money to, so they all fucked off to Iowa and somehow made a fortune in the real-estate business in the middle of the depression.  Despite now being comfortably middle-class, they never actually gave up farming, and having a pair of glowing green thumbs was a point of pride in the family.

So, when Grandpa moved out to California, specifically to the Salinas Valley, which is where an absurd percentage of the country’s food is grown because it’s full of probably the world’s most stupidly good soil,  Grandpa had to continue the tradition and set up a garden in the backyard, planted various crops and flowers in January because fuck you this is coastal California, I can start stuff in the middle of winter, and invited his sister Leone and her growing brood of (at the time, 5, later 9 children) out to visit.

They came out in July, to escape the Midwest humidity and Butter fetish for a time, when the corn is typically getting to be around knee-height if things are going well.  Grandpa spent a long time asking how things were back on the farm, plying them with ice tea and grandma’s lethal Angel Food cake, before politely inviting Leone and her Husband Scotty out back to see how his patch was doing, oh its not much really, just a bit of fun for me and the children-

Scotty and Leone stared at the nine-foot-tall goddamn corn which was already setting fruit because it had been going since January.  At the watermelon plant that had taken over the side-yard, and at the other oversize and thriving crops that had taken over grandpa’s yard.  There was a few moments of awed silence.

“Well fuck you Edwin.” Scotty eventually said, before Leone whopped him over the head and the rest of the visit was a pleasant diversion.

the following spring though, Grandpa received a package from Iowa, specifically a small peach tree with a note saying “With Love, Scotty.”

Leone knew better than to engage in such shenanigans, because this is irish-agrarian passive-aggressive Bullshittery at its absolute finest.  “Sure, yeah, you can do corn.  Any asshole can do corn.  TRY THIS FUSSY-ASS PEACH VARIETAL INSTEAD, YOU ASS”  is perhaps a more accurate translation.

Grandpa, not about to be intimidated by a mere tree, planted that sucker in the front yard and proceeded to pamper it- bone meal fertilizer, a brand-new irrigation system, the works.  Hell, he would go out some times and talk to the darn thing.  It flowered, and he borrowed a behive from one of the local farmers to make DARN SURE that it got pollinated, because he was going to mail peaches to Scotty for Christmas, that asshole.

The tree. Did not. fruit.

That fall, grandpa reccived a letter from Scotty, asking after a couple paragraphs of circumlocutions, how that tree he sent was doing?

Grandpa got up, made himself a martini, picked up Dad’s baseball bat, and walked out to the front yard to have a discussion with the Peach tree.  

“I’ve just received a letter.”  he explained, waving the paper at the tree. “Asking when you’re going to fruit.  Now, I think I’ve held up my responsibilities to you as your caretaker, so it’s time for you to start providing.  Do you understand?  This spring, you better start fruiting or I will personally take this bat to you and turn you to into kindling.”

He stepped close to the tree, sticking his face in the branches as though whispering into it’s hypothetical ear. “Do not test me, you little shit.”

The next week, the tree bloomed out of season, and by February, it had set an obscene amount of fruit, which grandpa gleefully turned into preserves and mailed back to Iowa.

flickr

Tall Corn Motel Motor Inn - Davenport, Iowa by cardboardamerica@gmail.com Jordan Smith
Via Flickr:
Junction Highway 6 & 150 Davenport, Iowa NEW MANAGEMENT - NEW DECOR - FREE COFFEE 86 Modern Units. Electric Kitchens. Air-conditioning, Television, Radio and Telephone, Wall-to-wall carpeting in each room. Cocktail Lounge, Swimming Pool, Children’s Playground. Close to restaurants, shopping centers,bowling alley, golf course. AAA Approved. Member of the Best Western Motels.

9

Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

2

“Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?”

Belladonna Farm (Part 1)

Yay! The first part of my new Nessian series! This will be a seven part fic and will have a couple aesthetic boards to go with it. 

Fun Fact: The setting for this fic is a real place that I have been to and took pictures of for the aesthetics. Everything about it is 100% true except for the mountains (which I added because Illyrians).

Please let me know what you guys think! 

Tagging: @aelinxfeyre @rowanismybae (let me know if you want to be added to this tag list!)

Aesthetic Board 1


‘belladonna’

noun

1. also called deadly nightshade. a poisonous plant, Atropa belladonna, or the nightshade family, having purplish-red flowers and blackberries

2. Italian for ‘beautiful lady’

Saturday

Nesta checks her phone again, squinting as she tries to understand the directions the stupid GPS app is telling her. She is pretty sure that it is completely wrong. After all, the last town is twenty miles back, and all around her are corn fields, with a small mountain range situated behind them. The road she is currently driving on is paved, but has many potholes, and the closest neighbors are several kilometers apart. Surely her late Aunt Ripleigh - who had loved to talk all day if she had an audience - wouldn’t want to live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, that may as well have been Nesta’s city heart talking. She could never imagine staying in a place like this for a long period of time, corn fields surrounding you, the sun beating down constantly. As it is, she has the air conditioning blasting in her car and the humidity is still getting to her hair. Not that she has anyone to impress. Nesta briefly feels a bit grateful for a week with no one around. Maybe she won’t even do her makeup while she’s staying here. Wherever here is.

As she continues to drive down the dull, straight road, Nesta once again curses the circumstances that put her here. Of course, she has no one to blame, because she can’t very well blame her dead great aunt for naming her in her will. Although Nesta fiercely wants to be angry that Aunt Ripleigh had decided that she should be the one given the farm house at the base of a mountain.

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Empty Walls Part One

Originally posted by impalaimagining

Summary: Dean Winchester is a mob Boss. He runs Lawrence, Kansas in tight quarters after the deaths of his parents. His brother, Sam leaves off with a girl he met, leaving Dean to run the city by himself. Can Dean handle the stress or will it cause him a terrible loss in the long run?

Word Count: 1092

Warnings: a few swears, mentions parents deaths

also, I have a marvel blog @caplanbuckybarnes in case y’all wondered why you got tagged in this fic lol

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Mythologies + Summertime feelings

Zeus: The rumbling of thunder in the middle of the day. A hot sunny day suddenly devoured by rolling clouds and the feel of a cool breeze indicating the arrival of a storm. The first droplets of rain falling upon your face, bringing strong humidity afterwards, and with it the return of the sun once more.

Chalchihuitlicue: The glistening of a river, lake, of stream by the midday sun. The bounty of creatures attracted to a body of water by a drive to survive. The shrill yet consistent cawing of seagull colonies flying above a brilliant blue ocean and perching and nesting on rocky cliffs. The sounds of rolling waves smashing against rocks compared to the daily resurgence of the calm tide at the mercy of the of the force of the moon. Nightfall brings with it the croaking of frogs, barely visible in the reeds by the riverside, and footprints in the sand washed away by the tide, memories dragged into the sea.

Dionysus: Teens sneaking out of their parents house to attend late night summer parties at their friends houses. Innocence, curiosity, and excitement in the faces of those teens as the wine is brought out. Parents recording their children’s performance in a quaint summer camp play. A pastor preaches ecstatically about their religion as they sweat in their suits, and a group of fans squeals wildly at a concert performed at by one of their favorite stars. A mother who has finally put her baby down for a nap, raiding a hiding spot for her bottle of “special juice”, which turns out to be wine, or a group of friends kicking off their shoes after a long, hard day at work and pouring some wine for each other, getting drunk and forgetting their worries of the world for just one night.

Chang'e: Finding the perfect summer night to go stargazing. Celebrating that the hot summer day has now turned into a cool summer night. Gazing up at the clear summer night sky, feeling so empty yet so full at the same time. Staying up all night to celebrate the summer solstice aka the longest day of the year. Tracking the movement of the moon night after night and watching out for meteor showers. Taking moments to just enjoy the moon, and the calm night that comes with it.

Ra: The heat of the sun beating down on you on a sweltering and muggy summer day and beads of sweat rolling down your face. Flip-flops smacking against pavement on the days where the heat disposes of the need for shoes. The shadows cast around you, reflections of the movement of the sun through the sky. The feeling of the sun burning your arm, put up to protect your eyes from it’s harsh glare. Watching the beauty of a sunset from a high altitude, and smiling, knowing that the sun will come up tomorrow.

Aphrodite: Girls strolling upon a boardwalk, dressed in pretty and colorful sundresses made of floaty fabrics and bodies adorned with shiny jewelry. Brightly painted lips that part to reveal smiles as the girls giggle at a joke one of them told. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes finding the courage to wear their bikinis to the beach or the pool on the first day of summer. Stolen kisses in the midst of night, and the chuckles of mischievous teens going skinny dipping in a nearby lake. Dates held at carnivals where hilarity is bound to ensue. The sharing of cotton candy and frightful screams of terrifying rides lost to the night, and one individual finally gathering up the courage to kiss the other at the top of the ferris wheel. Wild thoughts and rash decisions made in the name of love, that may or may not lead to regret in the fall. Trivial activities leading to the realization that summer will come to an end eventually, and then followed by the thought to enjoy it the best you can, for life is meant to be savoured, and so is love.

Anansi: Swatting off flies on a sticky summer day. Mosquito nets put up and screen doors being closed, protection from their constant biting. Itchy bumps and visible redness brought on by the relentless bites of various insects and arachnids. Spiderwebs flowing in the summer breeze, the unfortunate corpses of their prey left to rot in the hot summer air. Spiders of various shapes and sizes crawling up buildings and nesting in cracks and crevices, protection from the summer heat.

Demeter: Rolling fields of yellow grain, and tall green stalks of corn that seem to lose you in their cornfields. The sweat of farmers in faded denim overalls with rolled up sleeves toiling in the summer heat, harvesting their crops, and the shadows cast by their wide brimmed straw hats. Sinking your teeth into a soft roll of handmade bread prepared from the harvested grains while the elderly joyfully recount memories and life stories over freshly brewed beer, toasting to more memories to come.

Agni: The crackling sounds of dry wood burning in a campfire, sparks visible in the air, the small flame illuminating the night sky. The sounds of laughter as friends and family swarm around a neighborhood bonfire. The visible smoke from a forest fire ignited by the sparks of a small, unkempt flame. The savory scent brought on by the roasting of s'mores around a flame. The glowing embers of a dying fire and the ashes that are left afterwards, a symbol of what was once there.

Hermes: Familial dysfunction occurring during an hours long road trip. Poorly read maps and a malfunctioning GPS system. Little children crying over stolen toys. The hum of the wind and hair whipped around by it, caused by a car speeding down a highway. The sound of a lone car driving down an empty road. The crossing of state lines and the miles recounted. Postcards sent and received recounting tales of places visited and vacationed to. The sound of a car engine starting up once again, signalling a readiness for adventure.

Loki: Raucous laughter caused by a very audible joke. The sneaky giggles of friends planning a prank on another. Gasps of shock as someone is “accidentally” shoved into a pool. Playing with the gags at the jokes section of a toy store. Rolling your eyes at crude, unfunny, and/or distasteful joke. Mysteriously initiated water balloon fights that lead to everyone getting soaked. Clutching your sides and gasping for breath as your eyes tear up due to a joke that for some reason you found really funny. Getting cheered up by a friend who knows how to make you smile when you’re down. Remembering the importance of comedy through all the seriousness in the world, and knowing that sometimes, you just have to laugh.

Persephone: Walking through a field of flowers, all in full bloom, watching the butterflies, bees, and other pollinators flutter around, performing their built in duties. An odd couple sits under a tree to avoid the harshness of the summer sun, an imperfectly perfect match. Spending an hour plucking fresh flowers for your crush, inhaling their lovely scent beforehand and afterwards. Basking in the sun, flowers all around you, for summer is here, and it should be cherished for it will eventually come to an end.

Indiana Gothic
  • The forecast calls for snow. Best to expect rain. The forecast calls for rain. It will be a bright day. The forecast calls for sun. Bring a shovel. The forecast calls for mud. Tornadoes inbound. The forecast calls for tornadoes. The night will be long and the fates unforgiving - and far from quiet. 
  • You have been driving for hours now. Days perhaps. The corn stretches for miles in every conceivable direction. Behind you: corn. In front of you: corn. To either side: corn. Below you: corn. Above you: corn. You drive with a silent understanding that long after you are gone, the corn will remain. When God sits dead upon His throne, there will still be corn.
  • The city exists as an unnatural order amidst the corn. Tall spires that stretch higher and higher, but still no further away. Rigidly numbered streets form a grid, not unlike rows of corn. Even in its absence, its influence is felt. 
  • Banners of a bright and terrible blue call for a return to a nearly-forgotten glorious past. ‘Go Colts’ they say. ‘Go Colts’ they yell. ‘Go Colts’ they scream. ‘Go Colts’ they cry. ‘Go Colts’ they beg. ‘Go Colts’ they mutter. ‘Go Colts’ they weep. ‘Go Colts’ you whisper.
  • He has been there in the back of your mind for ages now. His presence felt through the streets and fields. His absence is the defining trait of the area. Everywhere you look you can see where He had been, once. His name still on the lips of every dark-eyed man, woman and child who hope against hope for His return. You join in their quiet prayers, because maybe, just maybe, if He returns, if He rises again, all will be well. So you kneel and pray, “Come back, Peyton Manning. Come back Number 18. We miss you.”
  • You sit on your porch sometimes to watch the seasons go by. It is a pleasant diversion. From your porch you can see all that you are supposed to see. Clouds form and turn to rain. Snow falls and a frost covers everything. Summer brings the locusts again to swarm east or west. You watch police cars speed down the highway, likely to arrest someone for brewing the wrong thing, selling the wrong thing, being the wrong thing. Spring blooms through the field, vines snaking left and right. What an afternoon.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
—  An old hymn about Eorl The Young, founder of the House of Eorl and ancestor of Rohan’s royal family. Sung by Aragorn in Rohirric to his companions on the way to Edoras. Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers, The King Of The Golden Hall.
Hello?

I awoke at 4 AM to a rather unsettling nightmare and found myself drenched in sweat, even though I had kicked the blankets off of my bed, and my ceiling fan was twirling on its highest setting. I was so shaken by the dream that the adrenaline pulsing through my body had me on high alert, unable to fall back asleep, at least for a little while.

   I turned the bedside table lamp on and looked at the clock to confirm the time before surveying my room to make sure nothing was out of place, and that no boogeymen were hiding away. Everything seemed just as I remembered when falling asleep. Nothing that I could notice, at least.

   I recounted what had happened in my nightmare, hoping that it would relieve my mind knowing that it was only a dream, and allow me to fall back asleep without any trouble.

   I was in a cornfield, which wasn’t unusual considering that where I live there were hundreds of those fields all across the town. It was nighttime, and unusually dark compared to the actual nights out in the country where the light from the stars themselves provided enough to see where one was going. I had a flashlight on me, but I never saw it in my hand; just a beam of light everywhere I looked, like something out of a video game.

   As I pushed through the thick, tall stalks of corn that were a chore to maneuver through, even in a dream, I came upon an old farmhouse. I had recognized it immediately, because as a kid the school bus would always drive past it to and from school. The place had always been poorly maintained by some old geezer who all of the kids told urban legends about. The man was a murderer, demonic cults were performed there, some creature roamed the cornfield, the scarecrows walked at midnight; if you could think of a story about the place, it had already been concocted by the young kids who were bored, as living in the middle of nowhere would do that to someone.

   The house was a block of nighttime shadow. I shined my flashlight along the rotting front porch, the dusty, old windows, and even the familiar blue pickup truck I’d seen parked at the side, its paint faded by countless sunny afternoons.

   The front door was open. My dream voice in my head prompted me to enter the house, like it was some invitation. As any nightmare goes, my gut told me otherwise and continuously attempted to force me to leave, but instead I walked up the squeaky, wooden steps and across the porch floorboards that sagged beneath my weight.

   I walked inside of the dark, empty farmhouse. I looked to my left. The furniture was askew. An old television, still adorned with the wiry antlers of cable antennae, had laid lopsided along the living room floor. A blizzard of static fizzed from its screen.

   In front of me down a short hallway, I was only able to have a glimpse of the kitchen through the open doorway. I saw a freshly made meal for two, barely even touched, and glistening in the beam of my flashlight were shards of broken glass from cups of water carelessly knocked off the edge of the table. Or, swiped? Thrown? The house was obviously in disarray, as if a fit of rage was unleashed upon the home.

   The wooden stairs that lead to the second floor were smeared with blood, along the steps and descending the wall. Something injured had been dragged mercilessly down the staircase, and a handprint on the wall, starting at the top, became a streak of red paint the further down it went.

   At this point, I had started to realize that I was in a nightmare. I think. It all had seemed so real, but everything felt…off. Different. As if it almost wanted to be real, but it couldn’t quite get it right.

   My subconscious managed to tell me that the upstairs was not worthy of investigating. I instead directed my attention to the basement entrance in the hallway ahead of me, just before the kitchen and beneath the staircase. Something was in there, I just knew it.

   I had found myself opening the basement door. My flashlight beam slowly directed itself down the basement steps and into the pitch black, empty, dirty basement. I could feel another presence down there, but I remained planted at the top of the staircase.

   It was a wet sound, like water dripping but with more of a defined impact with the basement floor. Thicker than water. Sticky. Something grumbled within the dark depths, in another language that I had never heard before, but even if I had, the way that it groggily mumbled the words in a deep, beastly voice was incoherent within itself.

   “Hello?” I stupidly called out, my dream-self forgetting every horror movie that I’d ever seen.

   Whatever was in the basement ceased its mumbling, and I heard a hiss of sudden alertness, presumably the being redirecting its attention to my intrusion. Hello? it mimicked back, over and over again in a different inflection and pitch with each repetition of the word. It sounded like multiple people were down in the basement, each responding back with ‘hello?’ of varying sexes and ages. A middle-aged man with a gruff voice; an old woman with a soft, welcoming voice; a little boy who sounded scared; a young woman whose voice seemed a few pitches too deep, as if it were coming through a voice-altering program. The creature continued to find the right voice, repeating the same word, and it paused before finally returning with a flawless, “Hello?” in my voice.

Read the rest of the story here!

Stay spooked!

afterlifeafterdeathMore Stories


This story may not be copied or reproduced without written permission from the author.

2

“Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Lost In The Corn Maze

Pairing: Hamilsquad x reader

Words: 516

Warnings: none

Request: Requested by anonymous: Please do a fan fiction where the reader and the hamilsquad go to a corn maze.

A/N: So I’ve been to one corn maze. It was fun and no surprise, it involved Kayla. Kayla has been in most of my life honestly she’s great I love her(and I’m 99% sure she’s gonna read this hey Kayla you’re great ily)

The corn maze came into view, the boys and you were jumping with excitement. You were thankful it was one of the few days you could pull Alex away from his writing.

“Come on!” John yelled, running ahead of the group. You followed quickly behind him. The rest of the group caught on, chasing after the two of you into the maze.

John sped through the maze, turning corners as fast as possible. You tried to follow behind him, hearing the footsteps of everyone else close behind you.

You turned a corner, staring down the split path.

“John!” You called, glancing behind you at the group who had now stopped.

“Hey, John which way did you go?” Hercules yelled, stepping up beside you. You were breathing heavily, but still enjoying yourself.

“We could split up.” Alex suggested. The rest of you nodded, deciding who should go with who.

“I’ll go with Laf.” Hercules stated. You and Alex nodded, watching the two walk off in one path.

“Alright, let’s go!” Alex grabbed your wrist, pulling you towards the other path.

You ran through the maze, running into tall corn plants. You eventually slowed down, engaged in a calm conversation with Alex.

“And then he just left?” Alex laughed.

“Yeah! Like a child!” You explained, giggling as well.

The conversation died down, and you walked peacefully.

Suddenly, a loud yell from behind you caused the both of you to jump back in surprise. The two of you spun around, confused.

“John, you asshole!” You shrieked.

John stood there, laughing uncontrollably.

“Where’s everyone else?” John said when he finally calmed down.

“Laf and Herc are looking for you because you decided to run off away from us.” Alex explained. He was laughing a little bit as well from John scaring both of you.

“Let’s go get them.” John turned around, walking through the maze with you and Alex. You got out your phone, calling Hercules.

“Hey, Y/N!” His voice rang through the receiver.

“Hey, we have John we’re heading through the maze to you.” You explained.

“Cool, we’ll go back. Tell him I said hi.” Hercules replied, hanging up the phone.

“Hercules says hi.” You put your phone back in your pocket, turning to John. John nodded, walking with the two of you back to the split in the paths.

Hercules and Lafayette were talking, faced away from you. John gave you a knowing smirk, and Alex caught on easily.

The three of you snuck behind them. John held up his hand, silently counting down from 3… 2… 1…

You all screamed, jumping onto the unsuspecting boys.

They yelled, jumping in surprise.

“Merde!”

Secret Hideouts!

The rebellion is gathering members! You should come to the next meeting…

  1. The old windmill
  2. The cellar under the inn
  3. The ruined keep at the crest of the hill
  4. Under the dock meetings at low tide
  5. The coal shed at the smithy. No smoking allowed
  6. A stone room built into the inside of the well.
  7. A dugout behind the sentinel rock
  8. The mayor’s office. Nobody will ever look there!
  9. In the back of the church
  10. In the church’s belltower
  11. Among the tall corn plants. The rebellion had better succeed before the harvest.
  12. The stables. Chestnut is content to share her stall in exchange for apples.

DeanCas Wizarding World!AU
Note: While this does not contain spoilers for Fantastic Beasts, it does use an element of the Universe from the movie.

“Dean? Dean! Dean Michael Winchester, do not take one more step, young man!”

“I’ll be okay, Momma!” Dean barely slips through his mother’s fingers, lanky nine year-old body darting through the open door and into the open, overgrown yard. “I gotta go help!”

“Dean, don’t you dare—!”

He sprints through the cornfield.

Knowing his mom will take too long with Sammy to catch up—and have an even harder time finding him amongst the tall corn—Dean pushes himself until his Momma’s hollering is background noise to the yelling of the people at the Novak’s. There’s the fire car there, and men shouting at each other for more water, and the house burning up like on the fourth of July.

Dean throws himself into the fray.

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