The girl was bleeding, but I didn’t know that at first. She had burst running from the field. I heard her sobs and deep, wracking breath, a rattling shudder rising from her chest and whistling through her teeth as she drew closer.
At 20 feet, I saw that the back of her shirt was in shreds that flapped as she ran.
At 10 feet, I saw the tears that had left trails down her crop-dust-coated, dirty face. I saw the blood that had run from her ears and dried down her neck, half-hidden by lank, dirty blonde hair.
At 5 feet I stepped off the porch to meet her as she stumbled to a stop framed by the setting sun on her left. At the back of her neck, a 4 or 5-inch flap of skin had been three-quarters torn away. It poured blood down a once white t-shirt, what was left of it now crimson-soaked tatters.
She jerked her head around to look behind–toward the field–then snapped back to look up at me. The ragged flesh flung blood. Then–and I had to lean close to hear what she said–she whispered as if something might be listening for her, “It’s in the corn.”
Just a little something from the story pipeline…