Writing Prompt: Think of an alternative vampire that survives on something other than blood. Write a story or scene based on this character.
With the faintest streak of orange edging the horizon and the sky fading from inky black to smoky blue-gray, a farmer turned from the window with a steaming coffee mug in hand. In the next room, the soft, rhythmic snoring of his wife of 32 years brought a quiet smile to his face.
While she slept, he was preparing to begin another long day. With nearly 300 acres of corn this year, harvest season would be grueling. His son Jake lived next door with his wife and two young daughters. The youngest was barely two months old and still keeping them up most nights. Jake would be out there getting the equipment ready. The old man didn’t know how Jake managed it all, but he was grateful to have him nearby.
He scratched his chest absently and slugged back the last of the coffee. Better put some in the thermos, he thought. The mornings were already getting cooler. The Almanac was predicting a longer cold season this fall and winter. He shrugged on his faded, red and blue plaid quilted wool shirt and grabbed his old green thermos and headed out the door.
Just as predicted, Jake was already in the barn, fueling up the tractors. He barely glanced up as his father entered, only offering a mumbled “Mornin’”.“We startin’ with the back forty, then movin’ to the east quarter?”A faint “Mmyeah” floated out from under the tractor.“All right then. You ready to head out?” Another grunt. The farmer took that as a yes and hopped up in the tractor seat, combine hitched to the back.
Outside, the barn lights cast long shadows across the gravel. He glanced back to see the headlights of the other tractor flash as his son started up the engine, and by the time he had reached the end of the driveway, Jake was right behind him. Chuckling to himself, he reminisced all the years he’d watched Jake shuffle off to school in silence, only to come home chattering like a cricket stuck in the walls.
The tractor rumbled toward the crest of the hill that rose above the houses and the fields. Just coming into sight, the million dollar view that was imprinted on his brain-the one that still took his breath away after all these years. This time of year, when the golden tassels covered the tops of the corn, undulating like a sea just before harvest, and seemingly spreading for miles, he was transported back to his boyhood, riding with his pop in the tractor cabin. He felt invincible when his dad would sit back and let him steer.
The tractor lurched, nearly throwing his head into the windshield, and it took him a moment to realize he had stomped the brakes. His breath caught as his eyes swept over the fields. The corn was flattened. Not bent or windblown, but crushed in wide, deliberate swaths stretching as far as he could see. Only a few stalks remained upright, standing like survivors on a battlefield.
His head turned to a noise beside him, Jake coming to a stop, the tractor idling noisily for a moment. They cut their engines simultaneously, the silence that followed almost unnatural. Jake rolled down his window and they sat in silence, at a loss for words. Jake’s phone startled them both and all he said was “Maria”.
As he took the call from his wife, it was clear from the farmer’s end the call had something to do with the massacre before him. Jake hung up and turned to him with a stunned look. “The morning news is reporting similar stories to this,” His hand waved in an arc before him, “all over the midwest. Not a single eyewitness has come forward, except one old farmer who claims to have seen a crowd leaving his fields on foot at around three this morning. The local police in his county are investigating but can’t find evidence of them anywhere and appear to be chalking it up to dementia induced hallucinations. Apparently he’s somewhat of an eccentric who’s been claiming alien sightings for years.”
They dismounted and headed down the hill on foot. The soil was slick from the early morning rain, masking whatever footprints or tracks might have been left behind.
But something had been here.
And it hadn’t come for blood.