Young Writers Society

This is really short ... kinda random ... lol ... yeah

The boy had lived there for three weeks now. He had counted off the days boringly; adding one small little hack to his small green chalkboard (he used an old sock as his eraser) for each long endured day he spent in this hell-hole called Illinois.

They all said Illinois was a great state; plenty to do. They lied. Of course they did, could you expect anything better? All the boy saw was corn, and he saw plenty of it. He hated this place. He hated Illinois. If only ... if only ...

<~>

Michael put another small mark on his chalkboard which hung helplessly along his wall (an ugly green color that couldn't be changed until next week.) That made twenty-two marks; three weeks and one day.

Michael took off his shoes and went to dinner with his family downstairs. Corn was on the menu. If only ... if only ...

<~>

When he lived in the city, the boy had gotten a new bike and had shown it off to all his friends. It was a great bike; green with flashy golden streaks running along it's length. He rode that bike through the streets every day after school, he could have been the happiest kid on earth.

Here the 'streets' were surrounded by corn. If only ... if only ...

<~>

Michael pedalled harder on his green bike he had gotten a few years ago when he lived in the city. The streets here made many unexpected twists and turns, and with the corn towering high above him, it was always fun to pedal around the corners and see the new sights revealed once the "golden bars" as his father called them were out of sight's way.

But this time, when Michael whizzed around the corner on his bike, he met a red pickup truck, and he couldn't stop, he couldn't breath.

He couldn't live.

If only ... if only ...

<~>

The boy whizzed his way closer to the corner ... and was stopped. He tried to pedal onward, but it was no use. Someone, or something, was dead set on making sure he did not go on.

Hey you! A voice called out in his mind.

Yes?

You know who I am? The voice (it was surely a boy's voice; yet this boy's voice sounded familiar) asked.

Why would I know that?

My point exactly. The boy said. Then a pause. My name is Michael. I am with you.

<~>

The wind blew through the corn, making an eerie, yet somewhat melodic sound. Then everything sat back to watch fate replay itself.

<~>

The boy stared at the corner, sure the boy Michael was with him ... Somewhere (it must've been in the back of his head) he heard the rumble of his dad's red pickup truck.

With the thought of his father and the thought of corn and a forced smile on his face, the boy straddled his bike ... and began to pedal around the corner.

if only ... if only