Here's My New Address: 666—CotC

DISCLAIMER, DISCLAIMER, oh, DISCLAIMER! I do not own any of the lovable characters from Children of the Corn, for they belong to Stephen King. But, I do own those who aren't mentioned in Children of the Corn, and if you're reading this story, I hope you have at least some background on the characters and the storyline.

What can I say about this beginning? I didn't want to start off right away, like have them lodged into the situation now. No, that's for the second chapter, if I'm to make it that far. I also hope for this to deviate from becoming a cliché, but already I can tell that's going to be slightly difficult. Hm, oh yes! I must warn you that if you're hoping for this to be one of those lovey dovey stories, you are sadly mistaken. So I'm not going to mislead you. For me, there is no love for the children of the corn. They're a bunch O' stubborn brats, for sure.

Hope someone likes it, at least. I know my writing may sound immature, but it's honestly because (mostly) it's hard for me to be serious about CotC. I seriously laugh every time I think about it, like now. Yikes. Well enjoy, and hopefully it's not too crappy!

Cause I don't promise anything. Anything!

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The clouds overhead were swirls of black, twisted and swollen heavy with rain, nearly seeming to burst as the imagination that ran wild inside my head began to seize control. Already, my eyes began to glaze over, and I could feel the drool dampening around the corners of my mouth as I stared off into space.

I haven't ever, I can tell you, ever, seen so much goddamn corn in all my promising sixteen years of dull life. I also haven't ever gone on so long without saying one critical word, for I haven't whined out a single complaint since early this afternoon, possibly four hours ago, when I had been chewing on a greasy burger that tore off and tasted exactly like rubber. How would I know? Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to.

My parents certainly hadn't minded my change in attitude. In fact, they probably embraced it as a blessing, an act of God to show that he is taking pity on them.

No, they just sat in the front seats, talking animatedly as my father drove and my mother darted her bug eyes (or as I loved to call them fish eyes, because that's what they were) across the map. Nebraska. Why in the hell were we here, of all godforsaken places?

"We're not here because we want to be, but because we have to be," I mouthed the words spoken earlier by my mother, and the answer had only annoyed me further.

Yes, but why am I here? Was the question I truly wanted to ask, to make matters even more difficult for her than they already seemed to be. My aunt was dying, so what? I hadn't known the woman for more than two seconds in my life, and, let's face it, those two seconds occurred when I was seven-years-old, and on the telephone. And her first question had been: Who the hell are you?

To which I gave the sullen reply: Your beloved niece, Marie.

So why should I care?

"Because she's your aunt," my father had replied, though with hidden disdain for her, and it seemed to him, just the way that he implied it; it should have been the most obvious reason to me. He had said that three weeks prior to our little "road trip", and even then I had told them that I wouldn't go. I had stomped around in the kitchen for hours, bawling and yelling and whining and shouting and breaking things, until I had worn myself out. At least I had slept well that night.

But if they had sent me out to Nebraska sooner, seeing all this corn, I think I would be able to sleep for decades.

I directed my attention to the back of my mother's head, her strawberry curls catching my eyes as she shook her bony fingers through them, glancing at herself through the side-view mirror, her face lighting up in what I could only hope to think was a smile.

"Shallow," I mumbled, leaning forward in my seat so that I could get a better view of the winding road ahead, amazing with its display of cracks and tire marks, and not to mention, lack of cars. The last time I had spotted a car had been on the Turnpike, which my father had decided was unfit for our travel, and took a back road instead. Way to go, daddy-O.

I decided that since nothing else worth my attention was happening, I would let my imagination take over once again, as it so often did without my permission. I continued to stare at the road, picturing our 1984 Chevy Monte Carlo to start spiraling out of control, my parents sputtering out last hopes and prayers as my dad couldn't seem to fix his mistakes, sending us flying off the shoulder of the road and into the stalks of corn, which the car flattened. I pictured myself, alive and well, bruised in some places but not many, the only survivor of the accident, with a wicked laugh burbling from my throat. My worries had died in the car wreck, and there would be no more strict religion controlling my life, no more parents to preach to me about right and wrong.

My heart sank at what thoughts my imagination had brought forth, a frown weighing down my lips. The picture began to fade away, leaving me to think in its wake. It made me feel somewhat monstrous, to have an inner desire for my parents to die in some horrible way. It also made me feel partially right about how I felt, for how they treated me, ignoring me when I didn't tag along with their beliefs, turning their backs on me when I had made a silly decision, something every teenager is known to have done. Even them.

They just never would admit to it. If I told them that they had did this wrong, or did that wrong, they would send me away, or entreat with me to follow in their footsteps, to become the shining star of a daughter they had always hoped for.

Well, she was long gone, but that wasn't what they wanted to hear.

I forced myself to tear away from my thoughts, sighing heavily before I ripped through the silent blanket that had draped itself over the car while I was away. "How long is it going to be like this?" I mumbled, perching my feet on my mother's pointed shoulders (did she ever slouch?) locking my Chucks around her neck playfully, trying to stir a response from her, anything that would appease my sudden craving for attention.

But she only tore my weak lock away, pushing my feet roughly back to where they belonged. I sneered at the back of her curly mane, crossing my arms against my chest as I huffed, and puffed, but didn't blow the roof off the car. Not this time, which was an extreme rarity for me. I was always used to tweaking reactions—mostly negative—out of people, especially from my own mother, who was refusing to acknowledge my petty existence in the backseat.

"I'm beginning to think you people took me out in the middle of nowhere just to kill me and then run." I chortled awkwardly, and then giggled at my perturbing sense of humor.

"That's not funny, Marie." My father scolded, but I had the feeling that it was, indeed, funny to him, or possibly not too high to take into consideration. And here I thought that he had no sense of humor. He never laughed, because my mother had bled him dry throughout the years. It was what, among few other things, she did best.

This trip was going to tear every string of insanity I had within me, and I could almost hear the thin lines snapping in my head, reverberating against my skull. Where was the fun in being sane? My eyes were reluctantly pinned, once again, to the back of my mother's jungle of hair. Fun hid itself from you when you were sane.

"Can't you just listen to your Walkman for an hour, at the most? It's hard to concentrate on the road when you're back there, sulking." Finally, a response from mommy dearest, who either felt my eyes burning deep holes into the back of her head, or saw me looking from the side mirror. She stared in it enough for three women to be satisfied, of that I was certain.

But honestly, what was there for either of them to pin so much concentration to? No cars, no wild animals just waiting to be road kill, and definitely no pedestrians. I almost asked, but timidly backed myself away, yet another rarity among all others that I have committed today. I was on a roll, and my mind refused to quit tumbling.

I started to think about what I would be doing back in Missouri, most likely with my best friend, Sarah. We would probably end up causing mischief one way or another, stuffing someone's mailbox to the brim with rotten meat, or pocketing things from drug stores that were of no use to anyone. My eyes glittered at the thought, and a dopey smile formed on my face. Anything, just to be away from here.

"—not such a good idea." Reality came back to me, flooding my eyes with what I didn't want to see. My father was doing some sort of bird dance as he argued, as lightly as he could manage, with my mother, who was throwing words in-between his, turning off her ears at what he had to say. Typical.

"It's only a few miles away!" She induced, pointing at a sign that read Gatlin – 3 miles, as if he couldn't read.

"I really don't think it's a good—"

"We need a rest stop!" Her fish eyes flashed to me briefly, and then she spoke again. "And who knows when we'll get another chance? We could eat, and maybe even try to cope with the current situation."

Or maybe you just want to delay this trip even further than it has to be.

I rolled my eyes as I snuggled my body deeper into the comfort of the leather seat, grinning as she continued to get herself worked up. All for some stupid town called Gatlin.

"Honey, listen to me, I—" He was cut off, yet again.

"Marie, honey, what do you think?" Her icy eyes turned to meet mine, and in them, I saw a deceiving shimmer. She only asked for my opinions when she wanted to win, so I shrugged nonchalantly, staring out into the sea of corn. "Sounds stupid."

I glanced over to see her reaction, baffled, her red lips pressed into a thin line, anger flashing hotly through her eyes.

"Let's just do it, Robert," She growled softly, still facing me, and then she turned around, slamming her back against her seat. She was a trifle mad, I assumed, and that feat pleased me very much.

I didn't think my father would give in to the temptress this time, having my vote on the matter, but when he shrugged his shoulders, heaved a sigh, and called it quits, I sat up straight in my seat, mouth agape.

"Excuse me?" I kept my voice low, disbelieving. Gatlin, Nebraska, a town that probably wasn't on the map—that's why they posted its insignificance on far too many signs this past hour—seemed full of possibilities, and no, I'm not referring to the good ones.

The first thought that wedged itself into my mind had been sneaky, and utterly horrifying. It sounded like a town full of psychos, religious psychos. I could imagine our car arriving before some grand church—as grand as they come in tiny towns that weren't printed on maps—with ladies dressed in flowery dresses and men in faded navy tuxedos swarming around the car with bibles cradled in their arms, amiable expressions on their frightening faces.

And, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be back home, far away from this hellhole of a place.

Maybe, as far as I could go.

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Okay, not a good way to end it, I understand, but I got tired of writing the intro because I don't like writing intros, though I believe they are one of the most important parts to a story. If you read it, mucho thanks to you. Damn, I have got to stop writing now, my brain hurts. (I'm pretty stupid). And it's short, I know.

Constructive criticism, anyone? :]