I recently read a quote by Ray Bradbury that recommended writing a short story every week. He said it's not possible to write fifty-two bad stories in a row. Whether he was right or not remains to be seen, but I'm trying to branch out and write more short stories. I don't think I'll manage one every week, but I'll do my best to at least get out a couple a month.
This story came from that goal and from a prompt about a lonely farmer who wants to be noticed. I was going for a Twilight Zone-esque feeling as I wrote it. I call it Circles.
A hot wind stirred through the fields, rustling the stalks of corn. The farmer stopped the tractor, letting it idle as he lifted a lukewarm bottle of water to his mouth. It quenched his thirst but did little to relieve the heat of a summer day in a tractor with no air-conditioning. If this had been one of the larger farms that generated the majority of the state's crops, there would be field workers out here in shiny green machines that felt like the Arctic circle on the inside. But Bartleby Jackson was only a small family farmer, without a family, and he had to make do with his fifteen-year-old equipment and just be thankful he didn't have to do it all by hand.
When he'd finished his work, the sun was just barely hanging in the sky. Bartleby parked his tractor in the barn before heading into the house to clean up. He stood on his slightly dilapidated front porch and sipped a cup of coffee with a generous splash of milk as he surveyed his land. The farm had been in his family for three generations, once-thriving, but as the younger members slowly moved away to more prosperous jobs in the city and large companies bought up surrounding properties, the farm became less prominent and Bartleby became more dissatisfied.
He had dreams too once, but as an only child his responsibilities were only too clear. The farm had fallen to his father after his grandparents' death and now, a decade after his own parents had prematurely passed away, it belonged to him. None of his cousins could be troubled to take over, to help out. They couldn't even be bothered to visit more than every other year. When he died, his farm would be absorbed by one of the surrounding mega-farms and the name of Bartleby Jackson would essentially vanish from history. Unless, that is, he married, had children. But at thirty-nine years of age, prospects of that seemed to grow dimmer every day.
He watched the increasing wind sweep through the corn field in front of him and the sight of the tall green stalks bending and swaying planted a tiny nugget of an idea in his brain. He recalled seeing a documentary once on public television, scientists and other intelligent types talking about a phenomenon they called crop circles. Large, flattened areas in wheat fields and corn fields all over the world, some forming amazingly intricate designs. People were divided as to what or who was responsible, some said it was kids who wanted a good laugh at the gullibility of the world at large. But others, even some of those intelligent types who had gone to school for most of their lives, they said it was aliens.
Bartleby looked at his field of corn, sipped his now cold coffee, and thought about just how fascinated everyone was with visitors from outer space.
***
He was still thinking about it the next day as he once more drove his tractor through the field. He thought about important the crop was to his survival, and he wondered how much money a newsprogram might pay for a story about alien circles on a small Iowa farm. More than that, how many people would come to see the circles, to speculate on their existence?
The next day he rose earlier than usual and made his way to the center of the corn field, carrying with him a flat board about half as long as he was. It was heavy enough to bend the tough, fibrous stalks of corn and light enough not to break them. In all the circles he'd seen on television, none of the plants were crushed during the formation of the designs. He had planned out his design on paper the night before, nothing too fancy, but still more impressive than just your basic circle. It had been easy enough, he was always good at geometry, but the hard part was translating it to the real world.
It took awhile for him to get in the rhythm of it, and he wasn't sure what exactly it would look like from the air, but finally, after nearly five hours of sweat and backaches, it was finished. He took a long shower and made a fresh pot of coffee, which he drank on the front porch. He waited another day before telling anyone about the circle in his field.
It was a passing remark to the other farmers at the co-op about something strange he'd found while working the land, some strange pattern in the crop. He knew the curiousity of small town men with nothing to do but work their farms and gossip over feed barrels wasn't something to be underestimated. One by one they came to look at his field, scratching their heads and examining the folded-over stalks.
The story made the local news in less than forty-eight hours; three days later he got the first call from a national morning show. Reporters and sight-seers trampled through his yard, obliterating the asters his mother had planted when he was a boy. Helicopters circled overhead, recording aerial views of the crop circle which would play repeatedly to the entire country and sweep across the Internet to the whole world.
The interest was even more than Bartleby expected, somehow he hadn't imagined seeing his face on so many different channels, hearing his voice, low and twanging through the fuzzy speakers of his ancient television. Dateline wanted to do a feature on him and the pattern in his field, and there was even talk of a possible book deal, with a price tag that was nearly two years of his income.
***
Bartleby slept the sleep of someone whose life was finally more than just driving tractors and planting seed, who saw the promise of new and exciting things on the horizon. Or so he slept until one night just a few weeks after he made the fateful decision to perpetrate a hoax on the world at large. He woke when a bright light fell upon him, a brilliant blue beam that seemed to pulse as it moved across his house. It was coming from the cornfield.
He left the house barefooted, the screen door clapping shut behind him. The air was filled with an unfamiliar humming sound and as he moved deeper into the field, the ground vibrated beneath his feet. When he stepped into the circle he nearly stumbled over his own feet, his mouth falling open at the sight that greeted him.
A large metal object had appeared in the precise center of the largest circle, it's gleaming silvery shell reflecting the glow of the moon. It was shaped something like an elongated turnip, wider at the top and tapering down to a point that rested lightly on the ground, supported by three spindly legs. As he watched, a rectangular section began to slowly detach itself from the hull, folding down to form a ramp. The inside glowed with the same blue light that had suffused his bedroom. In a moment, a figure appeared at the top of the ramp, silhouetted in the light.
It was taller than him, unnaturally thin, the top of its head smooth and hairless. It moved down the ramp in a surprisingly graceful manner, coming straight toward him. Bartleby willed his body to move, to turn and flee from the cornfield as if his life depended on it, but his muscles and bones wouldn't respond. It was as if he was frozen to that spot, held captive by the ever-growing horror of what he was witnessing. The creature stopped a few feet away, its yellow eyes unblinking in its strange, pinched face. For a few moments they regarded each other, man and mysterious visitor. Bartleby could see the creature's heart beating beneath the thin grey skin of its chest.
There was an odd clicking sound, like the noise of a giant insect, and then Bartleby felt a trembling overtake his entire body. A voice had spoken in his head, a deep, toneless voice devoid of emotion. But it wasn't the disembodied voice in his mind that made his blood congeal in his veins, not even the impassive way this creature stared at him. It was the words, the message, and the knowledge that everything that would come next was the result of his actions.
This planet has been marked for annexation. All lifeforms will be subject to extensive testing to determine serviceability. Your cooperation is beneficial but not required. This world now belongs to us.
