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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #754805 added June 13, 2012 at 12:16pm
Restrictions: None
Wheat
The phone rang in the middle of the night.
"Curtis," my boss's voice boomed. "Factory fire. Jefferson-Arms is on fire. The story is yours. The camera crew will meet you there."
Where Jefferson-Arms now stood, there used to be a wheat field. I recalled how Dad used to take me there, 'cause Farmer Jones was his friend. Dad used to say Jones used to be the kindest folk around these parts, but the pressures had turned him hard. As I drove I remembered Dad chatting with Jones while I glimpsed the vast fields of wheat smooth and silken, yellowing in the sun. I enjoyed watching the wheat, in the richest shade of gold, as it rippled in the wind. "Bone meal" Jones used to say. "I always mix bone in soil."
Jones' house was a little red cottage, always freshly painted, for paint is what Jones did on good days in winter months. He was a hard-working man. Never stopped. That was until they found him dead among the wheat with a gunshot to his head. Who'd done it, a mystery. If people knew a thing or two, they shut up, and the case remained open up until today.
Dad thought hard-living killed him. What he meant by that, I still can't tell.
Folks said Jones was killed because he wouldn't sell. After him, the big guys made his wife sell the farm. In a year or two, Jefferson-Arms replaced the wheat fields, and where the house used to stand became part of the parking lot.
With Jefferson-Arms in the county, farmhands turned to factory workers, but they were spooked. Rumors circulated that Jones's ghost haunted the place.
Our taping started as soon as I arrived at the scene. Breaking News, the station announced us. There was too much noise--fire crackling, folks yelling. Sound guys could hardly make out my talk even with my special mike. After a couple of intro sentences, I signaled, and the camera shifted to the fire. Then I turned around to take in the disturbing sight myself.
The place was cordoned off. Several firefighting companies were rushing in from the neighboring counties. The fire rose high above into the night sky. Under the thick smoke, the factory burned in yellow flames with a tinge of crimson.
Then I saw him. Farmer Jones. Or I thought I saw him. It was just an insignificant split second, but Farmer Jones's face looked at us from inside the blaze. It wasn't only me, though. Lots of folks swore by it that Jones was there inside the flames, grinning.
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Prompt : Wheat |
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