Werewolves
of Kansas
1.
Moonrise at the aubergine farm
Farmer
Brown sat bolt upright. There it was again, that hideous yowling.
The farm lay still under the full moon. He peered out between the
slats, shotgun in hand. A cool, moist breeze caressed his face. A
shadow slunk across the yard. Farmer Brown fired both barrels. He
watched for a long time, but nothing else moved.
2.
Green eggs and fritters
"I've
said it before, Mabel, your eggplant fritters can't be beat."
Farmer Brown pushed his chair back and patted his stomach. "A
shame to sell 'em."
"Get
along with you," his wife said. "Them purple beauties
won't grow themselves."
"All
right," he said, "but I saw something out there last night.
Almost looked like a ... something nasty and sneaky. Well, I've got
to check it out."
"Be
careful, Pa. Them felines can be mean when roused." He winced.
He had a little cat problem, but couldn't afford a psychotherapist.
"Don't
believe in them anyhow," he would say, meaning psychotherapists.
3.
Field of nightmares
The
fruit hung plump and dark. Huge pear-shaped Black Beauties, phallic
Ichiban, and the new ones. Farmer Brown believed genetically
modified crops were the coming thing, and he'd invested in a new
variety that promised to take every shape imaginable.
He
had planted the Baroque on the back row. Several looked a lot like
the King, one a bit like Jesus (he might be able to sell that one for
a premium), some didn't really look like anything. And there it was.
The cat. A big chunk was gone from the end and the tail was
missing. Oh, he recognized it alright.
"This
ends here," he growled, and pulled out his pocketknife, opening
the big blade. He reached for the stem with one hand, and held the
knife in the other. The plant seemed to vibrate – he froze. How
could it be active when the moon wasn't up? The fine hairs rose on
the back of his neck. Sweat beaded his forehead. His heart was
racing. Mabel always told him to watch out for that high blood
pressure he'd inherited from his pa and grandpa. The knife fell to
the ground. He backed away, trembling. When he got to the end of
the row he turned and ran.
4.
The year of the cat
He
didn't harvest any of the Baroques. He let his children and
neighbors take what they wanted; the rest rotted. That winter he
didn't see a single mouse.
Publ. Daily Cabal 2008
