Tales Of The Gurrier

I had the dream again last night.

I’m in the cornfield. Running, breathless, something else is there, others. I run.

I see them briefly, in the moments of starlight flung down through spears of green. They are shapeless amongst the corn, but they are there.

I run again. Down through coarse leafed tunnels, on towards the safety of the farm. The safety of locks and bullets. I pray there are locks and bullets where they come from. Mankind puts it’s faith in metal. Hard and unyielding, our shield against the world of men. But there are worse things than men in the world.

The lights of the farmhouse are silhouetted against the black lumps of the surrounding hills. They are closer now. I can hear them whispering, one to the other, passing messages across the waving ears of corn, or perhaps it is the wind. Perhaps they do not speak, their physiognomy evolved beyond the dull, feeble slapping of our meaty glands. Perhaps they but will a thought, a desire and as a shaft of light piercing the darkness it appears unto your mind in the instant, a moment of unequivocal meaning and clarity. To discourse with beings such as this, what conversation, what art! What sublime and noble creatures they must be?

And yet, perhaps this too is their doing. Silently placing these thoughts into my mind, that I might stumble upon them, thinking them my own. Poisoning my very will against myself! Aghast, I stop up my ears with frozen thumbs and flee.

Something brushes against my face, a feeler? A frond? Another spear of corn? I scream, but I do not stop. To stop is to die, I am certain. To stop is to await death like a dumb animal, cowering in mortal terror against the things from out there, beyond our ken. I will not stop, I will not let them take me so easily. I’ll fight, I’ll die, but I’ll fight.

The sheaves of corn part and I emerge at the farmhouse and the safety of the clapboard porch. Behind me, the sea of corn ripples and undulates in the swell of the night wind. My green jacketed, golden helmed army stands to attention against the cusp of the greensward. Beyond them, I sense my pursuers gather at their edges, unable or unwilling to venture further.

I hear the words of the old movie in my head, ‘If you build it, they will come.’

My mouth twists in a bitter laugh. Well, I built it. And they came.

Every night. Perhaps tomorrow the victory will be to the hounds and not the hare.

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Flickr Fiction has finally returned after a two month break. Hope there are still some of you out there to enjoy it.
This weeks picture was Corn by Flickr user Tomdebiec who does a lovely line in B&W photography. Fellow participants this week are Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Elimare, and our newest member Mari.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 25th, 2007 at 10:28 pm and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.