Shucking Corn

Rachel Richey from Literative – Check Page for Contest Details!

Corn

It’s time to harvest this bumper crop of creativity with Rachel Richey from Literative! This session is the writing prompt for Literative’s monthly writing contest! 1st place wins a $30 Amazon gift card! 2nd place wins a $15 card! There is no entry fee. Just go to literative.com and click on “Monthly Writing Contest” to enter. Contest runs from 9/4/17 until 10/4/17. Good luck!

Rachel Richey is an avid reader and story lover from the Rocky Mountains. She’s spent her whole life trying to convince people to write down their brilliant ideas so that they can be shared with the world. In 2014, she created Literative.com, a website that encourages creativity with fun writing contests, with her husband Sean Manion. She’s worked the freelance writing scene for several years and has also entered a few short story contests of her own. Currently, she lives in Ohio with Sean, her three stepsons, and two cats. 

Spirit

Baran the 50 eyed dragon monkey hopped over the high cliff. His red suit with 50 wide open pupils blinked in unison and his metal tail twanged as hit the dry earth.

The time of sun for the day had passed, now it was Baran’s. A bicycle passed behind him in the dark. It’s gears clicked and carried with it the sound of oil and soft tension. The cyclist rode through the dark, down the small hilly path.

Baran, a god. A creature for which dragons and shrines had been erected. Was surprised by the nighttime cyclist. Perhaps it was a child, unconcerned with his safety, not having seen great injury or comparable loss?

It might have been a scorned lover. Baran did not know.

He launched into the air again. His spring legs propelled him 100 feet above the trees. When he landed on the high tops of the white pines, his soft touch registered as nothing more than a mild mist.

The humans below didn’t know that Baran wandered these woods. His snarled face made of stone, his horns of antelope, his red suit and 50 living eyes. The cyclist certainly did not.

Baran was not lonely though. The tree which he was resting at the top, brushed against him to say hello. The wind sang the song of Baran which had been sung across the world for millenia. The ground below shifted and tapped to the beat. The rivers clanged and the fish all ran for Baran, the great and mighty spirit of the nighttime forest.

Baran launched himself again, this time landing in a small wasted deep pond. A small circle registered on it’s surface nothing more. Baran loved the feeling of the earth beneath the water on his bare feet. He sank deep, so deep that he passed through the molten core of the world and emerged on the other side, in a factory, somewhere in china.

Baran watched as men and women sweat in the intense heat. It appeared to be a forge of some sort. Their faces were black from dirt.

A woman pushed a cart filled with metal scrap along. It clanked with a rhythym unlike the one that Baran had just enjoyed in the forest.

This was enough. Baran returned to the nighttime fields of Saskatchewan. There was a box truck. On the side of the road.

A man stood akimbo with an old dog.