Harvest

by Michele Gwynn

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go out to my mom for being there with me on the fateful day that inspired this story, to my friends for encouraging me to write, and to my creative writing professor and classmates who cheered me on to complete this fictional tale inspired by true life events.

  From the Author

  I’ve always loved the science fiction genre. Nothing cemented that for me more than a frightening UFO sighting on January 6, 1995 in my hometown of Schertz, Texas. It was the middle of the day (around noon) with clear skies. Driving past a row of grazing pastures that are now filled with homes; my mother and I noticed something hovering off to our right. Being near Randolph Air Force Base, we thought it probably was some kind of training aircraft. I turned to look and saw not one, but two huge spherical-shaped objects hovering stock-still in the sky, side by side. They were a silvery-reflective color and had no lights, no windows, no visible point of entry, and no visible landing gear. To put it in perspective, they looked like two football stadium-sized, oval ball bearings. I begged my mother to pull over. Initially, she refused, but I convinced her. We U-turned and pulled back around. There we sat watching these two objects hover; not a sound could be heard. Suddenly, the one on the left shot straight up at a speed I can’t even comprehend. The one on the right hovered away from us, then it, too, shot up and was gone in the blink of an eye. We didn’t report the incident because we feared people would think we were crazy. It took many years before I gave this accounting to MUFON. It also took a few more years before I was able to sleep peacefully at night without fear of something coming to ‘get’ me. To this day, the only discontinuity to either of our retellings of this story is this; my mother says we got out of the car and walked over to the fence line to better view the UFOs. I maintain that I never left the car, but sat in the passenger’s side looking out of the window. That is the only difference in our memory of our UFO sighting. I wonder why?

  Harvest

  An original story by Michele Gwynn

  May 2, 1998

  “I hate these field trips. Always so dang boring!” said Red Graham. Red stood with his arm over the back of the pen fencing in fifty Black Angus cows. His red hair and freckles standing out in the bright midday sun gave reason to his nickname. His real name was Darrel Louis Graham, but no one called him that except his grandmother. Red shuffled his booted feet in the dusty Oklahoma earth.

  “At least it gets us out of class, man.” Dave Forrester pointed out the obvious to his best friend. “I’d rather be here smelling cow shit than sittin’ in trig listening to Mr. Jenkins try and explain angles.”

  “If you’d bathe once in a while, you wouldn’t smell like cow shit, dumbass!” Red punched Dave in the arm, laughing.

  “Shut the hell up, you redneck! If anyone smells here, it’s you!” Dave covered his nose, trying not to laugh out loud. “What the heck is that stench? You reek!”

  “It’s Old Spice!” Red pulled his shirt up to his nose and sniffed. “It doesn’t stink, dude. It’s attractive to the ladies.” He ran his hands down his tall, skinny form. “And you know how much the ladies love me!”

  Dave bent over double and gagged. “I think…I’m gonna be sick!”

  Red kicked Dave in the butt, sending him flying into the dirt. Three classmates turned and laughed at their antics.

  Dave sat up and leaned against the fence. “That was uncool, dude” he said, laughing.

  “Kiss my ass, Dave.” Red walked over and put out his hand to his friend, pulling him up.

  “C’mon, everyone’s moving into the barn” said Red. Together they followed the group, bringing up the rear while Dave slapped dust off of his backside.

  “What’s in this building?” Dave asked.

  “It’s where they house the cows before they load them in the back of the truck and haul them over to the slaughter house. Should be entertaining” Red said with moderate sarcasm.

  Dave looked around as they entered the large metal structure. The floors were concrete, and it smelled like animal feces, industrial strength cleanser, and hay. The class was standing before an indoor pen containing eleven cows. Mr. Hinky, their FFA (Future Farmers of America) teacher, began to speak.

  “Inside this pen are the next eleven heads of Angus to be taken to McShane’s Slaughterhouse. Fair Haven Farm delivers about 20 head of cattle a month to slaughter which isn’t much, but since they raise their cattle organically, it’s a healthy number for a farm this size. Mostly, Fair Haven makes its money by growing wheat and organic vegetables. They have a sizable farmer’s market every Saturday. The Angus cattle are just a small percent of their operation.”

  Two Mexican farm hands entered the pen with cattle prods in hand. A third backed up a flatbed truck to the back of the pen from the opposite side of the barn. As Dave and the rest of the class watched, the two men began to herd the cattle towards the now open back gate. Red laughed as the shorter farm hand zapped one of the cows on its hind quarters, making it low in protest.

  “Did you see that, man? That cow is already getting fried! Makes me want a burger after this.” Red slapped Dave on the shoulder, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were drawn to one cow still laying down to the right side of the pen. It was mooing, but not rising. The taller farm hand walked over and started shouting at it.

  “¡Subida, vaca! Levántese. Prisa!” He pointed the prodder at the cow’s side and zapped it. Immediately the cow began to moo in protest, rising on shaky legs. The man kept prodding the cow, whose eyes rolled around in its head, terrified. As it came to a full stand, it became obvious that its back, right leg was broken. It hung awkwardly, swinging back and forth as the cow tried not to put the hoof down.

  “Shit, dude! The cow’s injured!” said Dave. Two girls in the class began to cry.

  “Mr. Hinky, that cow is hurt. Make him stop” said Amber Thornton, a junior at Farley High. Barely five foot two, Amber had to stand on her toes to be seen, and shout to be heard.

  “This is part of the process, kids” Mr. Hinky explained matter of fact. “These cows are slated for the kill floor so it doesn’t much matter that it has a broken leg.”

  “That ain’t fuckin’ right. I wouldn’t treat my dog that way.” Dave’s alarm over the cow’s predicament rose every time he heard it groan in pain. Slowly, on three legs, the cow made its way to the flatbed. Each step was punctuated by a painful blast of electricity from the bright red prodder. Eyes rolling wildly around in its sockets, the cow inched its way onto the truck, then collapsed. The two Mexican farm hands lifted the tailgate up on the flatbed and locked it into place.

  Dave stood stunned, not believing the cruelty he just witnessed. Beside him, he heard Red teasing Amber about her tears. Above that, he heard Mr. Hinky telling the class that things like this are a fact of life and they should all learn to accept it since humans were at the top of the food chain. Quietly, Dave made a promise to himself that he’d never mistreat an animal, or buy anything from Fair Haven Farm or McShane’s again. He’d find a place that treated its cattle with respect. No animal should be put through what he’d just seen. Silently, Dave said a prayer for the cow.

  After the field trip ended, the class was bussed over to Dairy Queen for lunch. For the first time, Dave didn’t order a burger, but ate only fries and a shake instead. Throughout lunch, Red teased him about his delicate sensibilities.

  “Keep it up man! All the laughing you’re doing about that poor cow is going to come back and bite you in the ass someday. Grandma Effie is always saying’ no sin is hidden because someone is always watching’. Just sayin’!” With that, Dave stopped talking and drank his shake.

  Chapter 1

  July, 2010

  Traveling home after a night out was not unusual for Dave Forrester. It was a Saturday night
like any other. He’d hung out with his buddies at the local watering hole, and after a few games of pool, and a round or two of darts interspersed with beer and shots of Wild Turkey, he had clapped his buds on their arms, shaken hands, and promised to meet up again next week. So far, the only thing out of the ordinary had been the cute redhead seated at the far end of the bar all night. He kept sneaking looks at her, but Dave never quite got up the courage to approach her. She was prettier than he was used to, and he struggled with a slight inferiority complex.

  So when last call came around, he finished off his last Corona, told his best buddy, Red, he’d see him tomorrow sometime, glanced briefly at the pretty lady, (offering the customary tipping of his hat in her direction) before heading out the door to his Chevy truck. Yep, nothing was new tonight but the same old, same old, and going home alone. Dave sighed heavily, feeling incredibly lonely. It had been a long time since he last was in a relationship; so long that he had forgotten how nice it felt to have a woman’s arms around his waist at night or how sweet the sound of feminine laughter could be. He might not remember those things but he knew he missed them.

  It had been three years since Sherry had dumped him after cheating on him with a married man twice her age. He still didn’t understand how the hell that had happened, but the only thing Dave could figure out was the fellow was rich, and had more to offer financially than he did. Sherry always did like gifts, and the stuffed bears, wildflowers and infrequent dinners out to the steakhouse with the all you can eat salad bar hadn’t satisfied her. God knows he had tried. Dave felt one lone tear begin in his left eye and he took a deep breath, sucking it up, refusing to allow any more tears to fall for that gal. Dammit, men just don’t cry. Sherry was just plain materialistic and love notes, hand holding and telling her he loved her hadn’t put designer clothes on her wonderfully sculpted body, hadn’t slid onto her fingers like diamond rings, and could never fly her to Monaco first class like all the other guy’s money had done. Sherry had no heart and didn’t deserve his.

  With that last thought Dave tried to concentrate on the road ahead of him as he headed off down the country lane that would lead to his old-fashioned farm house on three acres of land. The house and land had come to him through his grandparents. When his granddad died five years back, his grandma, Effie, had been all alone in the house, unable to handle the planting and harvesting of the wheat and hay. Dave’s mom, Lynda, had subtly put the idea into her son’s head to move in with his grandmother, and help take care of things. Grandma Effie hadn’t wanted to lose the home she’d shared with her husband, Ernest, for over thirty years. Dave knew he’d end up with no choice in the matter, not that he minded much helping grandma out. The only setback had been in giving up his bachelor pad apartment which helped put a crimp in his love life with Sherry. She complained a lot whenever she and Dave had to go to her place to have sex, said a grown man ought to have his own place. She never understood that sometimes a grown man also has obligations to others as well. But that was in the past. Grandma Effie had declined in her health nonetheless after Ernest Hardy’s death. She just couldn’t seem to find a way to live her life without him, even with her grandson’s help. She passed on a year and half later, leaving the house and all the land to Dave. He’d been there ever since, making a go of farming. It wasn’t much, but he found he loved the simple labor. It was hard work, but he worked for himself, and what he made off the sale of the wheat and hay paid the bills. For the most part, Dave was content.

  There were no lights out this far along the roadside and one had to really pay attention to what was coming in order not to hit any wild animals running across the road. It was dark, quiet, and mighty peaceful with the warm July wind whipping through the rolled down, driver’s side window. Dave drifted off into thought as he cruised along the 30mph stretch. Another mile and he’d be home, alone with his television and empty bed.

  Behind him, a light streaked across the starless sky like a small comet. Dave noticed the flash in his rearview mirror. It grew larger and seemed like it was headed right at the back of his truck. The light continued to grow until it blinded Dave. He tried to look in the mirror to see what the hell was going on. For a split second, he thought a car load of kids had driven up behind him and had their high beams on. But another split second later, the Chevy truck was fully enclosed in a blinding white light and Dave barely got the chance to mutter “What the..” before a shuddering explosion of sound, or was it an implosion, like millions of conversations at once robbed him of consciousness.

  The truck slowed and rolled to a stop in a small ditch off the side of the lane, just a few hundred yards from Dave’s front lawn. The light dimmed and then was gone. Wisps of frost radiated off the truck and melted into the warm summer night air. All sound seemed to stop. The air was still, and Dave, unaware and unconscious, fell sideways in his seat belt, hanging suspended above the bench seat. The car radio spit and sputtered to life, softly playing Hank Williams’ “I’m so lonesome I could die”….

  Chapter 2

  Sharp cold was stinging his fingertips and his cheeks. Struggling to the surface of consciousness, fighting a lethargy that was weighing him down, Dave forced his brain to cooperate, and managed to open one eyelid. It felt like his lashes were stuck together but finally, he got the other eye opened and focused on a rubber mat that read CHEVROLET. He recognized it as the floor mat in his car, the one on the passenger side that was still completely legible and not half rubbed away by dirty work boots. His chest hurt, like when you had bronchitis and had coughed too hard for too long. He realized he was hanging forward in the seat belt and slowly leaned back into the seat. The pressure on his chest lessened and breathing became easier.

  Looking around, Dave searched for signs of a car accident. He didn’t see any. He gingerly turned his head to the right, and then the left before looking into the rear view mirror for any tell-tale evidence of another car. Darkness greeted him. He looked straight ahead into the grass of the ditch he was settled in, searching the small area illuminated by the headlights of his truck. Nothing, nothing but grass. No dead animals, no other car, absolutely nothing greeted his visual investigation. He sat there, trying to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a really bright light coming from behind.

  He reached for the door handle and pulled it. The truck door didn’t budge. He tried again and this time put his shoulder into it. With a snap and a crack, the door swung out. It had sounded like ice cracking. That’s strange, he thought. Dave released his seat belt and cautiously stepped out. The grass crunched like snow under his boots, and the road next to the ditch looked shiny on the surface. If it weren’t the middle of July, he would have sworn it was a patch of black ice, but that was just crazy. It had to be some liquid, maybe from his truck, catching a reflection from the moon or the headlights.

  He stood there, looking around into the quiet night. The quiet was so damn quiet it was eerie. Dave didn’t hear any crickets chirping. He didn’t hear any wind blowing. It was calm and still like the kind of quiet you notice right before a storm. He looked at the truck for any damage. It seemed sound and unharmed. Rubbing his chin in consternation, Dave turned to climb back in the truck. He was only a few hundred yards from home anyway. Sliding in and closing the door, he cranked the ignition. The radio station was blaring static so he turned it off and turned the wheel to the left, and pressed the gas peddle. The truck maneuvered back onto the road and he was home in less than five minutes. He felt winded and sore. It had been one strange night and Dave couldn’t wait to fall into bed and forget about it.

  The night air refused to stir. It was stifling and thick. Clouds gathered as the barometer rose. A strong breeze suddenly whipped through the trees and in the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning streaked the sky. A storm was brewing and heading right for Dave’s farm house. Inside, he lay passed out across the bed with one leg outside of the sheet thrown half-hazard over his nakedness. The wind-up alarm clock on the night stan
d ticked away. A clap of thunder boomed nearby followed by a bright blast of lightning. The bedroom lit up briefly, and once again dimmed. The clock on the nightstand ceased ticking. Outside, hail began to fall, striking the ground and bouncing off the roof before emitting steam, and melting away into the hot night. No other sound interrupted the fury of the passing storm. Dave slept on, unaware of all that faded away into the night.

  Chapter 3

  A steady rain fell, soaking the ground and flooding the low lying areas of the lane in front of Dave’s house. Inside, swimming up into consciousness, Dave yawned and stretched in his bed. Rolling onto his stomach, he looked over at the clock on the nightstand. It read 4:06 a.m. Damn, he thought, forgot to wind it up before going to sleep. He reached beyond the clock for his watch. Squinting to read the small numbers, he realized it was after 9:00 a.m. Well, hell, it’s Sunday and I have nowhere to be anyway.