The farmer waited for the sun to set, then he put on his wide brimmed cap and cape and made his way outside. He hardly ever slept anymore, and when he did, nightmares of some disaster befalling his crops always woke him. Most folks wouldn’t wait till dark to tend their crops, but the farmer wasn’t most folks, and he had a system, and he’d thank you to mind your own business.
He made his way along the length of his field, back and forth, inspecting the rows with tenderness and affection. The farmer had read somewhere that, if you’re trying to grow something, you should talk to it and play it music, and it’ll grow better. It wasn’t a practice that many farmers put into place, but this one was happy to stoop down to the ground and whisper sweet things and sing a song his mama taught him that came from somewhere far away and a long time since. No one thought his farming methods odd, because no one was ever privy to them. There’s only one farmer who farms at night.
So unaccustomed to folks coming along while he was at work, the farmer was startled when a voice called to him from the road. It was a lone man, jogging in place, asking what the farmer was doing. When the farmer explained that he was plying his craft, the jogger was clearly curious. The farmer invited him to come see how it worked. The jogger walked down from the road.
The farmer explained that you have to really love what you’ve planted as he scraped some dirt off one of the rows to expose some hair and maggots underneath. The bile rising in the jogger’s throat was stopped by the farmer’s hands tightening around it. The farmer squeezed even past hearing the crack of the adam’s apple breaking, just to make sure. He shook the limp body a bit, just to be even more so.
Most folks wouldn’t plant people down in the ground and hope something grows out of it, but the farmer wasn’t most folks, and he had a system, and he’d thank you to mind your own business.
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