Gah

I've decided to start actually writing little things again and posting them in here. It'll make me feel published. Maybe then I won't feel as compelled to stress out over other people's spelling and grammatical errors.

Peculiar, Missouri
The people of Peculiar gather eggs every morning from the dustiest of henhouses. They drive their tractors on the road at painfully slow speeds and revel in high school football. They say “y’all” and “boy” and are, for all practical purposes, not peculiar for a tiny Midwest-but-not-quite town. Their strangeness comes from the prairie, which stretches around the town like shards of light from a grimy sunset window. The prairie begs to be made up by humans. It’s nothing but a flat expanse of long, whispering grasses and vermin. A thin highway cuts through it with the purpose of leading people past Peculiar and maybe cajoling them to stop at the Wendy’s on Greater Ave. The folks there can craft the tallest of silos, yet they leave the prairie blank. They take from the land and live off of it in their little arrangement but the prairie’s got them on size. Peculiar is in danger of being beleaguered by silent, looming fields. The space is there waiting, empty, but the humans are afraid and won’t make anything else of it. What threat does it pose? We’re capable of plastering other countrysides with subdivision upon subdivision at breakneck speeds. The people of Peculiar could cut down the grass and pave over the jackrabbits. They won’t, because the prairie objects. Miles and miles of meadow hiss in the wind like a smart woman in the dark. The prairie ruffles its feathers and shines it sun and stays, laughing around Peculiar, Missouri.