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The thing in the field has been there for my whole life. It comforts me, and in return, I comfort it.

At first glance, it’s nothing special. Just an incredibly tall, thin wooden post that sits in the middle of the corn, silent.

All of my few neighbors say that it was built by the settlers here long ago for unknown reasons. But I know better. The only part they got right was the last.

The wooden post is not malicious, nor evil, but incredibly kind.

Ever since I was young, I would venture out into the corn, sitting down at the 50-foot tall post’s side and speaking to it. It always answered back, its voice not having a tone, nor a dialect. It sounded just like what it was; plain, boring wood. At least to the untrained eye.

The post gets me everything I want. Whenever I’m sad, or angry, the post does something to make me feel better. Maybe get the birds to fly in the air to the rhythm of my favorite song, or suddenly have the purse I’ve been wanting appear on my front doorstep. I have no idea how it does it, but I’m thankful.

Sometimes, the post would go to extremes to keep me content. Once, I was being bullied at school. I vented to the post about it, hoping it would make them fail the next test, or slip in the hallway in front of everybody.

When I arrived to first period that morning, I was shocked. The bullies’ bodies were strewn across the classroom, what was left of them resting on many chairs and desks. The police were called, but nobody found who had done it.

When I went home early, I was angry at the post, and told it to never do that again. It apologized, and all was fine.

However, things kept getting worse. When I woke up one Saturday, all of the livestock at my farm were dead, looking like they had all fallen to the ground at once. School was out for the next week, and I had learned this because it was on the news that the principal had unexpectedly died from a heart attack. The reporter blamed it on the town’s poor healthcare, but the man was young and fit. I knew it was the post’s fault.

I ran out to the field, the corn whipping at my face, my hair getting tangled within the webs of spiders, which the post promptly got rid of.

I screamed at the post, asking why it had done this. It replied that it noticed I was being stressed by taking care of the animals, and from the insane amount of homework the school was giving us to prepare for the upcoming test.

I then did something which I regretted for a long, long time.

I told the post I hated it, that I never wanted to see it again and that I wished it was gone from my life forever. It was silent for a long time, the air growing thick with a strange sadness.

My breathing had slowed, and I was about to apologize, when there was a deafening crack, and the post splintered in half, falling a few feet from me on the ground.

My mother was incredibly worried, thanking the lord that I was safe. I was much more upset about something else, though.

Every day I have gone out to where the post once stood, begging it to come back. Now, as I look outside, all I see is a sad, 25-foot, sharp stick that looks like a tree that was struck by lightning.

All I can hope for now is that the post has found someone new to serve, and that they treat it better than I treated it.