#BlogBattle time again! This is the Thirty-Eighth issue for Rachael Ritchey!
Greetings, once again, one and all! Welcome to another episode of… yeah, forget that.
But, I do offer another #BlogBattle entry.
The rules, of course: (Which I may have forgotten a time or two.)
- 1000 words max
- fictional tale (or true if you really want)
- PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
- Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related.
- Go for the entertainment value!
- State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
- Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
- Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
- Have fun!
Okay. Now we have that out of the way, can you tell I might be a little excited here? Maybe.
I had a thought.
When “delving in my mental cavern” for a possible story, this hit me. As I wrote, I did notice it rhymed, but instead of making it a poem, it sounded pretty good coming out in story form. So, that is how I will tender it to you.
I really hope y’all like this. At least half as much as I do.
This week, the prompt is “Fallow”
The Old Fallow Field
A Rhyming Horror Story
The land could tell tales, with these fallow pastures, and most of the stories would be considered disasters.
We know of the ones from the war, you see. Also the hangings from the old oak tree.
Some tell of hobos who camped on the edges, and how something had beat them, no mercy, with sledges.
One told a tale of a little boy, who had just gotten his wish for his favorite toy. He went to play in the field his Daddy just plowed, and later could be heard screaming real loud.
His parents had looked, as did everyone; none found a clue- not even one.
This event is not isolated. Not at all, by far. Did I tell the one of the speeding car?
It came ‘round the corner; careening, it seems. A mile away, one could hear tire screams. The car broke through the rail meant to stop them, and flew through the air- The people were locked in. It spun in mid-flight, the car hit the ground, the top ripped off as it tumbled around. If anyone saw it, telling looses its meaning, describing the sound of metal squealing and screaming.
The scene flipped stomachs of those arrived first.
But that isn’t even the tale that is worst.
A long time ago, in stories it goes; A farmer tried to get roots from the mounds as they froze. The rain posed a problem of another kind, and made the dirt in the valleys act like unrelenting slime.
He slipped and fell, and broke his left leg; right as his horse ran off with the sled. The man tried to crawl to the house far away; his wife would save him and keep Death at bay!
Before he made it, even half way, he drowned in the mud in that field that day.
Through all of the stories, one thing is uncertain: One important fact, hidden behind a curtain. None can relate the strangeness thus; when most first hear of it, the first word is a cuss.
Oh! Did I tell you of the party thrown by teens? That night there were horrid, blood-curdling screams!
In the trees hid a convict, recently escaped. The dark of the night kept his presence draped. Only too late the kids learned he hid there, as he attacked before any had become aware.
A Priest got called, people thought it a Demon. He went in with his tools, He’s safe! they were thinking.
He could be heard reciting certain rituals. The incense smoke rising in soft, gentle curls. The smoke began swirling with violent motion. The weeds swaying from such a virulent commotion. He could be heard, still, hollering over the noise, his cross held up high, perfectly poised.
The people standing on the edges of the scene, could not say what happened; none had seen.
Speculation revolves around the cursed location, on why there exist such heinous creations. Most deal with religion, or lack thereof, saying “The Devil slipped in, like a hand in a glove.”
The ones who don’t heed all of the warnings, are the ones who end up as new story adornings. For any who’ve ventured into that field, have gone missing regardless of weapons they wield. A pistol or rifle, knife or sharp stick, all rendered useless against dark forces so thick.
Whatever the cause of the patch of bad land, something dark, in the making, must have offered a hand.
Now that you’ve heard the history; I’ll tell you what this has to do with me:
My Sister had come over, late one night. We ended up having a terrible fight. She left while still mad, and slammed the door. Rattled the shelves, stuff fell on the floor. I felt some rage that she didn’t feel the same as I when bad things I revealed.
Her route took her by the Old Fallow Field; when that hit me, I hoped fate had not sealed her time as she went by that dreadful place, for I wanted that not to be the last I saw her face.
I jumped in my car, sped in pursuit; too bad I had no one else to recruit. I hurriedly chased her to keep her away from the Fields destined to take both of us that day. I neared the curve in the highway going way too fast. Like many before, I died in the crash.
Now for the thing I mentioned before; the thing that is stranger than all of the gore. Not one single body has been recovered, not even the farmer who the mud smothered.
So, I tell you outright, stay away, don’t go in! It just may spell your doom, your…