Story Excerpt

Three sweltering days hammered John Blackcrow with a migraine as persistent as the oppressive Kansas summer sun. He swallowed a pill to moderate the migraine before heading to his cornfield. Sweat trickled down his weathered face as he inspected ears of corn for the telltale signs of kernel shrinkage. No doubt, the harvest needed to start today, or he risked further financial losses.

John's brow furrowed as he spotted a swath of flattened and trampled corn. He swore under his breath, irritated at the thought of sacrificing a morning of harvesting in order to round-up loose cattle. The trampled cornstalks led to a cluster of cows with their heads down.

The closest cow was facing away from him. Through the shimmering heat mirage, it appeared to pick up an ear of corn, strip off the husk, and shove the ear into its mouth. John rubbed his eyes. This must be the side effects the doctor mentioned! He approached the cow and swatted at the animal's rump. "Shoo. Shoo. Get back to your pen."

Startled, the creature turned to face him. Its face was short and more primate than bovine in appearance. Intelligent eyes locked on to his. The being gave a slight bow and said, "Shoo. Shoo."

John's eyes widened in disbelief. He blinked before looking beyond the centaur-like creature. A gleaming silver disc-shaped spacecraft, surrounded by more extraterrestrial cattle, sat atop the flattened cornstalks. Through the fog of his migraine, he realized he was standing in the middle of a crop circle.

The alien he had swatted spoke in halting but recognizable Cheyenne,

"Zake ha’o. Hehpe’?" it asked in a smooth, resonant voice.

Unaccustomed to hearing the Cheyenne language, the words took a moment to register. John's mind reeled as the reality of the situation sank in. "Am I a buffalo keeper?" he stammered. "No. There haven't been bison, or more than a handful of Cheyenne, in Kansas for almost two hundred years."

The alien's expression turned disappointed, and he emitted a mournful sigh. "Buffalo friends…gone? So sad." He gestured towards the trampled cornstalks. "What is this delicious grass?"

"Corn. I grow it for my cattle and to sell."

"Ah, you are a trader then?" The creature engaged in a rapid conversation with his companions, punctuated by frequent excited moos. He turned back to John, his eyes radiant with joy. "I am Zaproc'tallinohonian. We seek your-" He paused, then switched to Cheyenne. "ŋó'ó'ó'háahíní tȟaŋháŋke."

Embarrassment flushed John's cheeks as he struggled to translate the words. "I don't know any trade ministers, Zaproc, uh, Tell An Ohioan," he replied. "Let me make some phone calls."

* * *

Franklin Isaiah Whearty III had been mayor of the small Kansas town of Clear Creek for nearly seven years. It was an easy job that gave him ample time to manage the town’s only convenience store. He sat in the mayor’s office eating a late lunch while scrutinizing the quarterly sales report for his store. The store's finances, like the town's, were slowly bleeding into the red.

Lewis Mayhew, the Assistant Mayor and Franklin’s brother-in-law, walked in as Franklin was finishing his root beer. “It’s Sheriff Tibbetts out on John Blackcrow’s farm. He says there are some aliens from outer space that would like to talk with you.”

Franklin coughed, spitting soda on the sales report. “Aliens? This is a joke, right?”

“No. Swears he’s not making it up. Bona fide little green men from Mars, except they’re not green…or from Mars.”

“Blackcrow spoke with them?”

“Yep. Says a couple of ‘em know English real well. Says they want to speak to our ‘Trade Minister’. He figured since you’re the mayor and own the five-and-dime store.…”

Franklin rose from his chair and followed Lewis into the city council chambers, where they kept a CB radio. He pressed the handset. “Hey Sheriff, it’s Mayor Whearty. You certain John isn't on another spiritual journey? Over."

"Hey mayor, they're not peyote-fueled hallucinations. I've seen them too and I'm stone sober. Over."

"These aliens. Are we talking E.T. or the Predator? Over.”

“I haven’t seen anything that looks like a weapon. They're docile vegetarians. John’s dogs seem to like ‘em too. Over.”

“If the dogs trust them, that’s good enough for me. Me and Lewis will be there in a half hour, assuming my truck doesn't break down again. Over and out.” He grabbed his rarely worn sports jacket and threw it on over his T-shirt, slipped on his better pair of work boots and headed for his rattletrap pickup truck.