Dylon’s Places of Interest: D Hill, Ackermanville, Pennslyvania

My name is Dylon. There are many beautiful places to see in this world. Some of these are more extraordinary than others. Some do not allow you to take pictures of them with earthly photography. Others are not photographed because I was streaming music on the way out and my phone died.



D Hill, Ackermanville, Pennslyvania


D Hill. Spring, around 3 PM

If you were to head out to the hills of Ackermanville, Penn, approximately 30 miles past the newly constructed Sheetz, a farm can be found. The name of the farm is “Roy Rogers Farm”, but not named after the famous singing cowboy, but instead the fast food restaurant native to the Northeastern United States.

“They came up and bought up most of the land to use for throwin’ out old deep friyers and storing plastic chairs.” says Herb Jim, the patriarch of the Jim Family who has been living on the farm for over 7 years. “A bug had ate up our orchard, and our seaweed harvest wudnt doing good at the time as you couldn’t grow no seaweed on the land, so we sold the land to keep the bread on the table…except for this.” He said this to me as we sat at his ancient kitchen table. He finished his coffee for 45 minutes, had a bowel movement, did something with a wooden window frame for another 45 minutes, and then he showed me something truly breathtaking.

Herb led me through the graveyard of rancid deep fryers and rickety, busted Roy Rogers plastic chairs. “They…umm, keep tellin’ me they’re a comin back for um. The raccoons have claimed um now.” As we entered into a cluster of woods centered in the field, Herb took his hat off, and wiped his weathered, 60-year old brow. His handkerchief was flithy. “Just right up right just here.” I thought he was having a stroke and we kept on through the brush.

We came to a crick. Herb , breathing heavily, took a full 36 minutes to regain his composure, then he called me over. I wondered if I had been led along, if Herb was leading me to an early grave in chunks at the bottom of an abandoned grease trap. Instead, he pointed to a fully grown oak and told me “Poosh on it”. I looked Herb directly in the eye with visible anger.

“No, Herb. I’ve had enough. You are too old and gross to tell me what to do. You’ve wasted my time as it is.” I was annoyed and my shoes were full of raccoon feces.

“Just poosh.” Herb gestured towards the tree, coughing violently as he spewed mucus into his tattered flannel shirt. Giving into this simple Pennslyvania man’s wishes, I approached the tree and “pooshed” on it. Nothing happened. Herb chuckled and spat out a yellow mass the size of a box jellyfish into the bushes. “City boy, pooshin on trees.” Herb continued past me, giggling and gurgling at my foolishness. What a fool I was to fall for his idiot farmer games.

As we breached the woods, I, at last, saw what I had come here to see. Large stone monoliths scattered all about the hills, all of them in the shape of what appeared to be a large capital D. Some in perfect rows, without a degree of variance in placement. Others knocked around, broken. Some placed far away on distant hill.

“Here’s all this crap here.” Herb said, as he ripped a gigantic fart that erupted through the woods causing every bird to flee in fear.

Despite this man’s complete and total ignorance, I was in a state of shock. Some of the D’s looked like marble and were as smooth as butter. Others were prickly and red-colored, painful to the touch, almost as if they were electrified. It was then that I noticed a pattern: all of the D’s that were in a line together were smooth and pleasing to run my hands across, but the ones knocked on the ground with corners broken and chunks of stone torn out were almost vibrating.

“My god, man. These are living things!” I exclaimed, throwing my coat on one of the hurt. “Do you realize what this means?” Herb looked at me with a look so incredibly stupid…I find it difficult to explain without raising my blood pressure.

“THESE ARE LIVING STONES! This is a new lifeform, Herb!”. I was now caressing the smooth stone. The broken ones were far to painful to touch and left a weird banana-scented film on my hands.

Herb continued in his labored breathing, pausing just long enough to swallow some air to clear out his anus. “I dunno. They’ve been here a while. When I was youngun, they was over there on that there hill. Since then, they’ve moved over here. Not sure what they’re after. Dudint help me none.” Herb was sweating fat and grease and fat.

I glanced over at the hill where Herb had said they had started. I could see the faint outline of a rut in the ground that got barer as it neared the stones. Some ruts traveled off to the side to a pond. There were D’s in the pond, all stone as well. Would they drown? Did they breathe?

“Herb, I don’t know what to make of any of this. I was expecting Stonehenge, but I got something much more. Where do I begin with any of this?” I was at a genuine loss for words. Everything in my life up to this point seemed so small compared to this.

“I dunno.” Herb said, pulling at his tight, tight ugly shirt. His breathing was the worst thing I had ever heard, even Richard Ashcroft live. My attention was completely drawn to his pockmarked face and stupid dull brown eyes. What an imbecile, to have this momentous discovery in your own backyard, on the farm that you own, and do nothing with it. What a idiot, idiot, stupid man. I did not care much for him at all.

“Herb, why do you keep this field? You clearly care nothing about the fact that you have sentient rocks living on your property. Why didn’t you sell it to Roy Rogers Inc?” I had not noticed up until this point that my hand had curled into a fist, my fingernails digging deeper into the flesh of my palm. “WHY DID YOU KEEP THIS TO YOURSELF?”

Herb replied with a fart that, I swear to you, caused a duck to scream in the woods from fright. I couldn’t handle anymore of it, so I left. I left Herb in the woods and I drove my car really fast out of his stupid gravel driveway.

I still dream of those rocks. I went out one night one my own to try to find them, but I couldn’t located them. They allowed themselves to only be found by the one man who could never appreciate them on the level that I could, who could never tap their potential and what it means for us and our future.

Beauty is wasted on the stupid. Stupid…stupid Herb.





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