Inclination

Mutual Understandings, Magnetism, Massive Plunges

You stand barefoot in grass that is just above ankle high, blossoming with clover and it's brilliantly vanilla and amethyst flowers that resemble cotton balls. Before you is a cornfield that begins in an unnaturally plumb frontier where the grass ends, the plants easily a head or two taller than you.

The stalks are sturdy and the leaves droop and point to the ground, husks of corn grow in diagonal lines outward from their centers and the silk from their tops looks soft and fringe-like. The tassels at the peak of each plant are nearly a foot tall and golden like wheat. Every time a gust of wind blows, the tassels blow in the same direction, starting from the right side of the seemingly never ending field and slowly undulating towards the left like a field of swaying dominoes.

All at once you draw in a deep breath and begin running with your hands in front of your face as you break through the barrier of the lanky plants, the sizable leaves and silken tops of the ears of corn brushing the skin of your bare arms.

The sway of plume above you sounds a lot like the continual crash of ocean waves mixed with the crinkling of tissue paper in one's fist and somewhere off in the distance you can make out the sound of wind chimes and the cheerful chirp of a swallow.

All you can see is hundreds of thousands of plants in never ending rows ahead of you. When you look to the side, the cool and shaded green of the stalks whiz by in a blur as you race forward. Above you are leaves and tufts and beyond that, a cloudless clear blue sky, the light of the sun omnipresent interspersed with a quick luster of blinding light that flashes through the vegetation.

You have no idea where you are or in which direction you are running, not an inkling of what time of day it is or what urged you to run head-first into a giant maze that would be seemingly impossible to emerge from.

Your bare feet sting and burn against the dirt and fallen, dried leaves and bits of hay adorning the ground. Somehow you don't feel frightened or worried about how or when you'll escape, you only want to follow the internal compulsion to plunge deeper into the unknown.

When you hear your name shouted from somewhere on the horizon, a flock of birds break free from their resting place in the field and lift off into the air all at once, feathers falling from their bodies and drifting slowly in the breeze. Some of them drop against the flora and some spin in somersaults in the air before getting caught in tassel or disappearing with the breeze altogether.

You reach forward to pluck one from its confines and when you draw it closer to your face to scrutinize the colors, you notice alternating charcoal, chocolate and tawny stripes as it tapers to a tall and elegant point and realize it has been dropped by a wild pheasant.

The feather trembles with life and bursts forth towards the sun, growing and transforming into a statuesque, regal and rare albino peacock crest. You clutch the quill tightly and tilt your head to see the plumage in its entirety; the eye at the top and it's surrounding wisps reaching upwards and rocking in the breeze as the corn stalks do.

Your name is called again from somewhere in the distance and you suddenly remember your purpose; to hunt for someone or something that beckoned you into this field. You reach the peacock feather high into the air and wave it around, as if it were a white flag of surrender and all at once you can feel the energy of a person approaching.

You watch as the feather singes blue at the top before igniting into a tiny orange flame and then bursting into an explosion of sparks. You gasp and cover your mouth but hold on tightly as it takes on the form of a vintage metal sparkler, tiny garish white lights kindle and erupt downwards towards your fingertips, burning each feather on the way until they snuff and silence when they reach the calamus.