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The town was pretty much the same, yet had changed. Rosalie still tended bar, the regulars still came in to drink their beers, shoot pool, and tell their tales of “The Maze” as it became to be known. Of course, through the years, the story had been altered and embellished upon, and has faded into the category of urban; or in this case; rural legend. The field is now overgrown; the house was never sold and is in a disheveled condition; partly due to vandals, partly due to the cruel Indiana summers and even harsher winters.
It is rumored that on that night, when the harvest moon hangs high in the night sky, one can still hear their screams of agony, smell the smoke and pungent scent of burning corn and flesh, and if you look carefully, one can see the Queen of the Harvest Moon wandering through the overgrowth as she searches for her lost crown.
- COMMENTS
Anonymousover 6 years agoI read this story, your first published effort, on 23 September 2017. A masterpiece of describing down home Indiana. The eloquence of your descriptions was as flawless as a Hope Diamond; and the emotions evoked were a wonderful mixture of joy and sorrow for a time now lost!
Five Stars!
Once again, absolutely exquisite!
Anonymousover 10 years agois, I guess why this tale though well told has not yet received comment.
It reminds me of the many deaths in an English amusement hall built largely of clear plastic with no easy way to see the exits.
If it saves one reader from not considering what would happen in a fire, it will have served it's purpose.
