My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My Collection of Short Stories & Published Works
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
My collection of writings and published stories for you to enjoy!
Stories Menu
Stories Menu
Watching Corn Grow
Watching Corn Grow
Watching Corn Grow
Swamp Ape Review, Florida Atlantic University
Swamp Ape Review, Florida Atlantic University
“A good time to watch corn grow,” my dad said of the record-setting heat. It was the summer that I’d turned eleven, and the Dixon family had moved onto the property next to ours. Neighbors in central Missouri are spread far apart, and the place had been vacant for quite a while. I can still remember my excitement. The Dixons had three kids—the youngest, Russell, a boy my age.
Russell bragged of having lived all over the world, the last place being Norway. He told of seeing the northern lights dance in the sky, and of wearing snowshoes to walk around the town where they’d lived. It snowed here, too, although not that much and it didn’t last long. And on summer days with temperatures soaring into the 90s, winter seemed a vague memory. Listening to Russell tell of the countries he’d seen and things he’d done captured my imagination. I had never traveled farther from home than Jefferson City. His stories of swimming in the ocean, climbing sand dunes, and riding across the Golden Gate Bridge wowed me.
Unfortunately, the reverse was not true. Russell showed little interest in watching corn grow, or anything else, here in the boonies. He’d asked his parents to send him to a private school in Massachusetts where his father and grandfather had gone. He said anything would be better than living on a hot, dusty farm in the middle of nowhere.
I understood. Life on a farm can be slow and filled with chores. But there are rewards, and I wanted to share them with him, and possibly change his mind. I took Russell into our orchards and showed him the different varieties of pears and apples we grew. We climbed the trees and ate fruit right off the branches. We picked pole beans from the garden and pulled up beets and radishes. We fed our chickens, and gathered and cleaned their eggs. I even showed him how to milk a cow. None of these things seemed to interest him much, but he did them, perhaps for the distraction.
One day, I thought I’d take Russell for a hike through the forest a mile or so from our houses. It’s still there today—a wondrous place with trails that cut through tall stands of elm, sweetgum, and oak, and a fast-flowing creek that ripples over rocks. Best of all, the creek had loads of tadpoles at that time of year. “We can bring jars and catch some.”
“Okay,” he responded with a shrug.
“You’ll like them! Honest. They’re magical,” I said. “They become frogs right before your eyes!” With that, I had given him my best sales pitch. He seemed unimpressed.
***
***
A night of heavy rain conspired with early morning sun and heat to make the air extra humid. When I’d told my dad I was going to show Russell the creek, he said, “Feels like thunderstorm weather. Be careful. You remember about lightning and water, right?” I said that I did. “I’m taking your mother to the dentist, so we won’t be home until late this afternoon.”
Mom had given me two peanut butter jars for collecting tadpoles and put them in a shopping bag, which I hung from my bike’s handlebars. I’d sweated through my tee-shirt by the time I’d pedaled to Russell’s place. His mother answered the door and said that Russell would be out in a moment. She told me how happy she was that Russell had made a friend and asked me to watch out for him. She said Russell hadn’t had many outdoor adventures. “Too cold in Norway?” I asked.
She cocked her head and looked at me curiously.
“Let’s go,” Russell interrupted, edging past his mother. “See you later,” he told her. She shook her head, wished us a fun time, and returned inside.
Russell sat on their front stoop and slipped on a pair of heavy black rubber boots. When he stood, they came up to the knobby knees of his skinny legs. I tried not to laugh but did. “How can you walk in those things?”
“Watch me,” he said, plodding over to his bike and straining to lift his leg high enough to get it over the bar. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve gone hiking all over the world.”
Much of the land in this part of the county had been cleared and planted in neat rows of bushy green soy, removing shade but giving the fields we rode past the handsome, groomed look of corduroy.
When we got to the forest, we left our bikes on the ground and wandered in. The trees formed a leafy canopy shielding us from the biting sun and, while the air was warm, we immediately felt more comfortable. We both noted that, and how quiet it was—until we were startled by a piercingly loud squawk.
“What was that?” Russell asked with a look of concern.
“Probably a blue jay. They’re real noisy.” I smiled to reassure him, then paused. “Listen. Do you hear that chirping?”
He nodded.
“That’s a red-winged blackbird. They’re songbirds.” I searched, spotted it, and pointed. “Up there. See the orangey-red on his wing?”
“Yes!” His enthusiasm made me happy. “Hey,” he said, taking several steps off the trail, “There’s a little brownish bird on the ground over there.” He moved forward, crouching. “And she has three chicks following behind her.”
I turned and saw that he was about to get on the ground and crawl. “Stop!” I yelled. The birds scattered. “Stand up and don’t touch anything. Get back on the trail.”
He looked at me, annoyed. “I wasn’t going to bother them.”
“No. You’re standing in a bunch of poison ivy.”
He froze. “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” he said, close to tears.
From then on, any enthusiasm Russell might have had for being in the forest evaporated. We returned to the path, he trudging behind me deeper into the woods, careful not to veer off the trail. “Don’t hear birds anymore,” he grumbled. I didn’t say anything but believed that Russell’s boots, flapping noisily against his legs, discouraged birds from making themselves known. “How much farther is this creek?” he asked.
“Follow me.” I led the way, holding the bag with the empty jars. When I glanced back, I saw Russell meticulously stepping in my footprints as we cut across underbrush toward the fast-flowing stream.
We arrived and saw that the previous night’s rain had swollen the creek and made the muddy banks more slippery. That had me moving cautiously, my shoes sliding with every step. Perhaps Russell’s boots weren’t such a bad idea, I told myself, seeing how muddy my sneakers had become. “Let’s go across the rocks to other side,” I said. “The pools over there are where the tadpoles hang out.” Russell seemed hesitant. “You can hold onto my shoulder if you want.”
He stood straighter and shook his head.
The rocks were mostly flat and spaced so you didn’t have to jump, though the water was high, and a few were slick with silvery-green moss. I figured since Russell was taller than me and had done a lot of hiking, he’d be fine. When I got to the other side, I called out, “Your turn.”
He stepped over the first few rocks, but hesitated in the middle of the creek, losing the rhythm of his motion. “Keep going,” I told him as he began to wobble, distracted by the fast-flowing water. He tried to regain his balance, but his downstream leg slipped and plunged into the creek. His boot immediately filled with water. He struggled against the current as his leg sunk, and his splits widened—one leg on top of a rock, the other in the stream’s bed.
“Take your boot off,” I called.
He grabbed hold of his leg and pulled. “It won’t let go. I can’t get loose!”
“Don’t panic. Step off the rock into the creek. It’s not that deep.”
“I’m stuck. I can’t move,” he said. “And I’m sinking.”
I dropped the bag with the jars, went back across the rocks and tugged on his arm.
“I’m being pulled apart,” he said, working to resist the current.
I was beginning to panic. “Hold on,” I told him. “I’ll go back to my house.”
“Hurry,” he said.
Watching Corn Grow
Swamp Ape Review, Florida Atlantic University
“A good time to watch corn grow,” my dad said of the record-setting heat. It was the summer that I’d turned eleven, and the Dixon family had moved onto the property next to ours. Neighbors in central Missouri are spread far apart, and the place had been vacant for quite a while. I can still remember my excitement. The Dixons had three kids—the youngest, Russell, a boy my age.
Russell bragged of having lived all over the world, the last place being Norway. He told of seeing the northern lights dance in the sky, and of wearing snowshoes to walk around the town where they’d lived. It snowed here, too, although not that much and it didn’t last long. And on summer days with temperatures soaring into the 90s, winter seemed a vague memory. Listening to Russell tell of the countries he’d seen and things he’d done captured my imagination. I had never traveled farther from home than Jefferson City. His stories of swimming in the ocean, climbing sand dunes, and riding across the Golden Gate Bridge wowed me.
Unfortunately, the reverse was not true. Russell showed little interest in watching corn grow, or anything else, here in the boonies. He’d asked his parents to send him to a private school in Massachusetts where his father and grandfather had gone. He said anything would be better than living on a hot, dusty farm in the middle of nowhere.
I understood. Life on a farm can be slow and filled with chores. But there are rewards, and I wanted to share them with him, and possibly change his mind. I took Russell into our orchards and showed him the different varieties of pears and apples we grew. We climbed the trees and ate fruit right off the branches. We picked pole beans from the garden and pulled up beets and radishes. We fed our chickens, and gathered and cleaned their eggs. I even showed him how to milk a cow. None of these things seemed to interest him much, but he did them, perhaps for the distraction.
One day, I thought I’d take Russell for a hike through the forest a mile or so from our houses. It’s still there today—a wondrous place with trails that cut through tall stands of elm, sweetgum, and oak, and a fast-flowing creek that ripples over rocks. Best of all, the creek had loads of tadpoles at that time of year. “We can bring jars and catch some.”
“Okay,” he responded with a shrug.
“You’ll like them! Honest. They’re magical,” I said. “They become frogs right before your eyes!” With that, I had given him my best sales pitch. He seemed unimpressed.
***
A night of heavy rain conspired with early morning sun and heat to make the air extra humid. When I’d told my dad I was going to show Russell the creek, he said, “Feels like thunderstorm weather. Be careful. You remember about lightning and water, right?” I said that I did. “I’m taking your mother to the dentist, so we won’t be home until late this afternoon.”
Mom had given me two peanut butter jars for collecting tadpoles and put them in a shopping bag, which I hung from my bike’s handlebars. I’d sweated through my tee-shirt by the time I’d pedaled to Russell’s place. His mother answered the door and said that Russell would be out in a moment. She told me how happy she was that Russell had made a friend and asked me to watch out for him. She said Russell hadn’t had many outdoor adventures. “Too cold in Norway?” I asked.
She cocked her head and looked at me curiously.
“Let’s go,” Russell interrupted, edging past his mother. “See you later,” he told her. She shook her head, wished us a fun time, and returned inside.
Russell sat on their front stoop and slipped on a pair of heavy black rubber boots. When he stood, they came up to the knobby knees of his skinny legs. I tried not to laugh but did. “How can you walk in those things?”
“Watch me,” he said, plodding over to his bike and straining to lift his leg high enough to get it over the bar. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve gone hiking all over the world.”
Much of the land in this part of the county had been cleared and planted in neat rows of bushy green soy, removing shade but giving the fields we rode past the handsome, groomed look of corduroy.
When we got to the forest, we left our bikes on the ground and wandered in. The trees formed a leafy canopy shielding us from the biting sun and, while the air was warm, we immediately felt more comfortable. We both noted that, and how quiet it was—until we were startled by a piercingly loud squawk.
“What was that?” Russell asked with a look of concern.
“Probably a blue jay. They’re real noisy.” I smiled to reassure him, then paused. “Listen. Do you hear that chirping?”
He nodded.
“That’s a red-winged blackbird. They’re songbirds.” I searched, spotted it, and pointed. “Up there. See the orangey-red on his wing?”
“Yes!” His enthusiasm made me happy. “Hey,” he said, taking several steps off the trail, “There’s a little brownish bird on the ground over there.” He moved forward, crouching. “And she has three chicks following behind her.”
I turned and saw that he was about to get on the ground and crawl. “Stop!” I yelled. The birds scattered. “Stand up and don’t touch anything. Get back on the trail.”
He looked at me, annoyed. “I wasn’t going to bother them.”
“No. You’re standing in a bunch of poison ivy.”
He froze. “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” he said, close to tears.
From then on, any enthusiasm Russell might have had for being in the forest evaporated. We returned to the path, he trudging behind me deeper into the woods, careful not to veer off the trail. “Don’t hear birds anymore,” he grumbled. I didn’t say anything but believed that Russell’s boots, flapping noisily against his legs, discouraged birds from making themselves known. “How much farther is this creek?” he asked.
“Follow me.” I led the way, holding the bag with the empty jars. When I glanced back, I saw Russell meticulously stepping in my footprints as we cut across underbrush toward the fast-flowing stream.
We arrived and saw that the previous night’s rain had swollen the creek and made the muddy banks more slippery. That had me moving cautiously, my shoes sliding with every step. Perhaps Russell’s boots weren’t such a bad idea, I told myself, seeing how muddy my sneakers had become. “Let’s go across the rocks to other side,” I said. “The pools over there are where the tadpoles hang out.” Russell seemed hesitant. “You can hold onto my shoulder if you want.”
He stood straighter and shook his head.
The rocks were mostly flat and spaced so you didn’t have to jump, though the water was high, and a few were slick with silvery-green moss. I figured since Russell was taller than me and had done a lot of hiking, he’d be fine. When I got to the other side, I called out, “Your turn.”
He stepped over the first few rocks, but hesitated in the middle of the creek, losing the rhythm of his motion. “Keep going,” I told him as he began to wobble, distracted by the fast-flowing water. He tried to regain his balance, but his downstream leg slipped and plunged into the creek. His boot immediately filled with water. He struggled against the current as his leg sunk, and his splits widened—one leg on top of a rock, the other in the stream’s bed.
“Take your boot off,” I called.
He grabbed hold of his leg and pulled. “It won’t let go. I can’t get loose!”
“Don’t panic. Step off the rock into the creek. It’s not that deep.”
“I’m stuck. I can’t move,” he said. “And I’m sinking.”
I dropped the bag with the jars, went back across the rocks and tugged on his arm.
“I’m being pulled apart,” he said, working to resist the current.
I was beginning to panic. “Hold on,” I told him. “I’ll go back to my house.”
“Hurry,” he said.
Awards
Literary Award
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
The Outing” — Winner, Stories Through the Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2022 International Short Story Contest
Editor’s Choice
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Counting the Ways” — Editor’s Choice, Ignatian Literary Magazine, University of San Francisco
Social Media
Social Media
Social Media
Social Media
© 2026 Alan Gartenhaus
© 2026 Alan Gartenhaus