Remember the guy who sold us a Half-Volkswagen worth of pumpkins and potatoes from his own fields? He lives in the village next. And just called to say ‘I know what you’re doing in your second live.’ Then he politely invited me to pose on his pumpkin filled fields. This Wednesday evening. On Halloween, yes.
Sharing the news with Fotomann, his eyes glow of mischief. “The fat guy with the pumpkins? He knows that you’re posing naked, does he?”
“He told me that he knows everything, that he is a faithful fan on my sites. On all of my sites.”
“He’d require a VPN to access your hardcore content. Hmm--”
“You’ll have the opportunity to ask him. I wish to go. What do you say?”
Hesitating a bit, Don looks at the floor, on the walls, through the window in the kitchen, at this adorable little orange tiger fixing us from the sill on the veranda side. He says to me, “very well then, I didn’t see this coming. And what if he wants more than photos? Will you fuck him?”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” I sense a mild electric charge spreading around the backside of my thorax, left and right. “I like that you care for me. However, it is you who taught me about cuckolding. I know you have a compulsive desire to share me with other men. But, at the end of the day, he can’t fuck me. I already told him about my boundaries. This unless you wish to offer him a handjob or, maybe, a blowjob?”
My husband’s eyes grow bigger, wider, worried, more and more. “Okay, okay. Was just saying. No handjobs. No blowjobs. Neither of us will make contact with the host of the pumpkin field. Okay with you?”
“Ah, well. As far as I know you, and your fans, there comes a moment when men’s minds turn off. You’ve learned to master that kind of power: turning men on, nether on, and minds off. Your charms, candid as they go, work like a breeze of spring --in one’s pants, and like a fog of winter --in one’s mind.”
“You wish to say something?”
“I wish to say that when I watch the poor guys, drooling at you, loosing their control, I kinda feel empathy for them.”
“Empathy? Really? Those guys fantasize to fuck your wife, and you--”
“And I know that you won’t fuck one of them. You’re such a tease. Yet not a fuck. They call me the lucky guy, dreaming for a bite, visualizing, picturing themselves in my shoes. Thus, I dunno how, my subconscious enters this game, suggesting some kind of reward, a handjob, maybe a blow. Dunno.”
“Don! Hope you don’t wish to blow the fat guy with the pumpkins.” Horror on my face. How would I kiss my foolish hubby? Horror. Horror!! I can tell you that.
“I won’t blow the fat guy, Doris. Calm down. Not even a handjob. Because I plan to bring a new gadget with me, to run some tests from his pumpkin fields.”
“A new gadget? What gadget?”
“A scalar cooler.”
“What’s a scalar cooler? Ah... those lightning rods you’re talking about. How many of them? Twelve, I guess. Uhm, thought that you’ll leave them for my bean plants. Oh, and also to serve as a most needed screen for the casual voyeur climbing on roofs.”
“You’ll have them back for your bean grid, and for the green screen of your desire. Just let me bring four of them with us. Wish to plant them in each corner of the pumpkin field. To make a square.”
“And how do you expect to stick those three-meters long rods into the ground? The earth is hard, and rocky. You certainly know that. Well, not as much as I do, must admit.”
“Does the word scalar ring a bell? See this cuff? I’ve got several dozens more.” With a hand gesture, Don invites me to the Atelier --our unfinished business. Then up the ladder --where I have to climb ahead of him, always, don’t know why. “Here, look.”
“These are female screws. Well, quite voluminous, but nevertheless. What’s the big deal with them? Why do you call them cuffs?”
“Ah, there’s a mystery in every little thing and you know that. My lovely bunny.” I return his grin with a wink. Yes! It seems to me that I do nothing and some guy --on the other side of the planet-- gets excited. “You are right, these are ordinary nuts. Stainless steel, chrome and nickel --to which I’ve added bismuth ferrite so that...”
“You painted them or what?”
“Ah. Not exactly. In the cauldron.”
“My cauldron? The one that I use in summer to cook our treasured national dish?”
“Exactly. That very cauldron. It hangs nicely in the opposite corner of the garden, far far away from the house. I placed the sphere inside it, grounded, then I feed the signal through the ports inside the carcass. It generated a directional beam. Sort of painting but from inside out. At the atomic level of resonance.”
“Like 3D printing?”
“You got it. My classy cougar. See? This is the mystery of your irresistible moves. And faces.” Could sound as a compliment, but I know, deep inside my soul, that he’s over his ears in love. Yes. A force coming from above, or beyond, or both? That I can’t understand. That I can’t control, nor undertake. It’s not me. But it’s on me, around me. All I can do is giving thanks, being grateful and --trying some empathy, not much!-- considering giving a blowjob to the fat guy with the pumpkins. What a crazy and dirty and despicable thought! Shhh, can’t tell Don about it.
“Too late, honey. You’re keeping a bismuth baked nut in your hand. All your thoughts continuously copying to my mind. As they arrive into yours, unfiltered.”
“Damn. Sorry, Don. I didn’t mean it. I definitely don’t wish to suck on any cock, other than yours. Forgive me. Please!!” Puppy eyes.
“Forgive you for what? For a rebel thought? That is not even part of your consciousness. That landed on your mind just like that. Coming from nowhere.”
“From nowhere? Why not from somewhere?”
“There’s no somewhere for naughty thoughts. Naught to naught. Null to null. Nothing to nothing.”
“Oh well, again your cosmic existentialism taking over. I won’t suck the fat guy. I have no plans to suck any other guy but you! Let me suck your dick now. Because, naught or not, I do have an urge. That I know where is coming from. That I know where is going to. That I need to satiate my body with. Give me your sperm. You Teddy Bear. Come!”
No way he can avoid this act of aggression. His ragged jeans rolled down, his hand jerking patiently, his eyes bigger than the lenses of these peeping cameras. His mouth muted behind a smirk.
It’s magic to men. Wondering, I ask myself what did I do, other than expressing my sentiments, my desires, my needs.
“Right, my dear, your feelings, your desires, your wantons. Not your worries, your deceptions, your missed expectations. You being yourself, here and now.” How about I put that thing back in its box. Because, you know, exposing the nuts and bolts of your magic would eventually break it. “All it takes is to stay honest to yourself. First and foremost!” That’s what I try to do, I think back at his spoken remark. Before I free my fingers from the hexagonal piece of stainless steel. And whatever he’d been baking inside it. Using my summer kitchen cauldron. Can you imagine?
Monday went, like Tuesday did, and here we are: Wednesday afternoon, five o’clock.
“Doris, could you please give me a red rag?”
“Dunno if there’s a clean one. Do you need a clean one?”
“Nah, anything red and dirty would do. I just need to hang it at the extremity of these rods. Because they go more than one meter behind the end of the car and I need a signaling method, to make them visible in traffic.”
I run to the garage, dig a couple of brown boxes, and bring him a pair of red socks. “These will do?”
“You’re welcome. Don’t forget to put the bag with the cameras in the back of the car.”
“I’d rather have you hold that bag in front, next to your feet. Because I wish to keep the cameras as far as possible from the cuffs.”
“The nuts, female screws, remember? They could drain the batteries, even affect the electronics in the cameras.” Says he carefully arranging four long boxes --heavy, thin and long metal boxes-- in the back of the car. Two to the left, two to the right of the four rods --bundled together like in fasces.
A quarter of an hour later, we shake hands with the fat guy, next to the drive. Pumpkins left and right. He invites us to his backyard, then farther over the fields behind his home. Pumpkins everywhere. Not piled up in attractive formations, like those carpeting the lawn between his house and the road. Here you can walk freely among all these gourds of different shapes, lengths and sizes. A thought... No. No! No-no-no. Pass behind me, you dirty, crazy, nonsensical thought. I don’t need your inspiration right now. Go away!
Where’s Don? Comes the thought next. Ah, there he goes, for the rods. The fat guy --ain’t it interesting that he hasn’t got a name, at least in this story, so far-- is helping him with hauling the irons and planting them in the four corners of the field. He wished to bring some tools but Don dismissed that. His body language can be more convincing than words. His palms, sliding up and down, in parallel, describe an imaginary column of marble, that would go up, up to the sky, according to Don’s hands.
I am too far from them to notice if those cuffs --as he calls the baked nuts-- have been introduced around the rods. I don’t know. But hey, wow! Spiraling on its own, the female screw that has been obviously put on the ground --this is why there was no way I could see it-- is pushing the iron down into the earth. One third in. So one meter in and two meters above. My crazy man and the fat guy with pumpkins are only giving a hand to keep the rod vertical until it will reach the prescribed depth.
A similar story, from corner to corner, will repeat for the other three rods. Like a vast and dark, and gray, blanket, generously dotted with orange, the field comes to life, seemingly pulsating, or following a rhythm, not sure. But I know what my shoes tell my soles: that the ground beats. And I can tell what all those pumpkins around us, hundreds if not thousands, are doing: they bounce!
“What is going on? Don! Hey, can you hear me? Something is happening with the earth under our feet. Hey!!” Undisturbed by my shouting, by my waving hands, he keeps detailing some weird stuff to the fat guy. Why weird? Because I can read his body language. I’m pretty sure that the man thinks he’s crazy. And lucky. Because of me. I am the reason. I’m always the reason. It seems.
Decisively, I go to him. To talk, to ask, to inquire, to require. But, as soon as I step out of the perimeter, the drumming of the earth comes to an abrupt halt. I could see the pumpkins falling flat, like dead skulls, or bones, huge bones, or skulls, covering the entire field. Moving not. Like dead.
“Hey Doris, good that you’re here. We were talking about the photo shooting. Some questions, I was telling Mister Z., are better addressed to you directly. I’m your man, ya know, but you’re your own master, and mine, if you know what I mean.”
“Don. Don! Shut up! Haven’t you noticed that all this field was shaking, like a drumhead. Can you?--” I stop. I close my mouth. Both men stare at me, quite surprised. Their silence speaks to me. I don’t wish to look hysterical, not to sound crazy. So I’d better shut my mouth up. Opening my eyes wide, measuring Mister Z., from his torso up to his hat, then back down to his torso, I ask with the first smile that comes in handy. “Yes, Mister Z., I’ll be delighted to hear your questions.”
“Lovely Doris, let me thank you once again for accepting my invitation. I am an avid fan of yours. Have seen all your sexy photo updates, most of your clips too. Let me say that some of them, I consider to be art porn movies. I know that you’re an amateur but does it matter if you get it hard in my pants?, if you keep a grip on my mind? I fall asleep with an image of you, I dream of you, I wake up with another image of you. I am charmed by you.” As he speaks, holding his breath, I change smiles, one after another, trying to look interested, doing my best to pretend I am curious and bitching myself about why can’t I be more empathic with this man. Why am I so cold? Why am I NOT like in my photos and videos? Why, Doris, why?
“Lovely Doris,” continues our host, “I wish to offer you an unforgettable Halloween night. I wish for you to feel in your own element, to be at ease with everything around you. To enjoy what you do, the way you’re teasing us all in front of the camera.” The man is genuine, welcoming, obliging, driven by all of the best intentions, and etc. Still, I don’t feel myself at large. He can sense that. Because he keeps insisting with all the amiabilities in the world. In his world. And when exhausted, he takes the list from the beginning. Again.
I feel like a cat out of her forest, captive to an alien ground, surrounded by strangers, by the unknown. I don’t like it. At large? In my own element? You gotta be kiddin’ me!
I keep mum, hiding behind all the smiles I can get. “I’ll walk around,” say I to Mister Z., “to accommodate myself with the elements.” Turning back, I step inside the perimeter --about which I’ve totally forgotten. Dum, dum, dum. DUMM - dumm - dumm. DUUMMh. The pumkins get mad at me. A sideways blink reassures me that the men haven’t noticed a thing. So why bother asking them. Again.
Touching the first gourd that came under my feet, I press. It hits back. Like a fish, struggling out of water. The next pumpkin gets to feel my palm. I caress it. Gently. I even try to speak to it, the way I do to my cats, or to the neighbor’s dog. It purrs. What on--? The pumpkin purrs?? Have I checked myself lately? Don’t answer that question, dear. Don’t even think that question. Stop thinking! Yeah!!
What a beautiful world. Silence. No more jumping pumpkins. No more drum beating earth. Think not. Contemplate. Rejoice.
“Oh! Hello! Hello there. Miss Doris? Hello and be welcome to our home. God brought you here!” I can see a well-built woman approaching with open arms, a wide smile on her face, joy in her eyes and a voice to fill the mountains. “I am the wife. So glad to meet you, finally, in the flesh, in the real world. Come, join me at the table, there on the swing. Let the men do their talking. Let us know each other. I mean, better know each other. If you know what I mean. Heh, heh, heh, heh.”
To be honest, I’ve got no clue about what she means. But I’m being polite and --something that has been missing all this time, something that I love, is here with me, over this field of peculiar pumpkins. This something is another woman. Another cat, I’ll say it (sorry, think it) bravely. Let the dogs talk their talk. OMG, what is wrong with me? Now I see women as cats and men as dogs. Is this normal? I don’t think so. Yes, dear, do this, don’t think. At all.
An hour later, an hour of not thinking at all, briefed about all the gossip in the village, partly connected to our town, about the avatars that her husband --Mister Z.-- is using to access the porn sites over the internet, including my sites.
Now I know, I remember, I start thinking. Again. Strange, those users were showing German flags, or Dutch, or Austrian. Never a Hungarian flag. Makes sense, because Hungary is banned from my hardcore content. I’ve got my reasons. Firm reasons.
Asking ‘the wife’ if Mister Z. runs his internet under a VPN, she tells me that yes, he’s got several VPN connections. How comes? I dare a look that she caught already. Their son works at Telekom, he knows stuff.
Fuck, I shiver, what if their son knows my secrets, my real name, my stage name. What if he was watching me with his father or whatever, whenever, if he’s the network artist there. What if he was in our house, sent by the company. What if the son of Mister Z. is the cable guy? What if, what if, what if? I think I’ll get crazy, or crazier than I am. So don’t think, Doris dear. Best is not to think. At all.
Missus ‘the wife’ --our hostess and mistress of Mister Z’s main reality-- wants to learn about diet and lifestyle changes from me. About quitting sugar and all bad habits associated with following the crowds. She wants to be like me. She even shows me a few nude clips on her phone. Not with me but with her posing and pissing in front of Mister Z.
Finally, I arrive to feel at home. Totally. I tell her about the pharma industry and its evils. I tell her about the pharmacy of our Lord, which is our very planet because, when He made our bodies out of this earth then He surely allowed the medicine, the cure, for our bodies’ ailments to grow on this earth (this is what Maria Treben used to say, and write, or this is where I’ve heard it first). I tell her about the food industry and actually about every industry that is --intrinsically-- detrimental to the harmony between spirit and body.
Feeling in my element, I keep talking. Maybe that I like to hear myself. But when she chimes in, then I listen. Because I’m a good listener. They say. Men. And wives of men too, it seems.
Night is long upon us. Mister Z. has brought two torches to make light. Missus wants all the many lanterns lightened up because, I forgot to mention, or I wasn’t paying attention, that lots of pumpkins are emptied and sculpted. Some are natural, alive, but these are a minority.
I offer to give her a hand. Leaving our men at the table, to eat their fourth portion of pumpkin pie (all natural, no sugars, no additives, just baked in the oven till slightly burnt), we roam the field under the night, with long wooden sticks in our hands, bringing the light from pumpkin core to pumpkin core.
It’s magic. I know it isn’t because there’s no magic in the real world, but I like turning the trick of light into a parody, especially an orange one. I wish that all fears die a candle’s death and that all cheerfulness laughs in the face of night and darkness. I love to sing. I love to dance. So I sing and dance. All over the pumpkins field.
Mistress Z. (let me call her this way, will ya?) has just finished to make all her pumpkins shine out through the night. She brings a flute to the acoustic, giving some sense to our otherwise unruly dancing. A tone of local folklore.
Mister Z. applauds, trying to insinuate percussion. My Fotomann checks his phone, shows it to Mister Z., briefly, who nods mischievously without ceasing to accompany his wife’s flute.
I realize that there’s a reason, a primary goal, for which I am here. And that is to undress, to strip, to tease, to get naked, to show my intimate parts, to mimic sexual acts, to be the cat, the cougar, the bunny that people expect me to be. To play the part where I am me, or am I really me? What’s the role and who is me?
The ground begins to beat. Like a drum. I see now. I understand that my spirit is tense. I guess what those baked nuts, bismuth baked or whatever, are doing to the earth: they amplify my tumult. Like a resonance box.
Looking around, I hear silence, I see Mistress Z. taking the flute down from her lips, asking me if everything is okay. It is, what could I answer her? Are you sure?, comes a doubt back to my mind. I realize that we don’t speak. We’re not using words. We just stand, some place to the West corner of the pumpkins field, looking at each other and exchanging thoughts, worries and comfort. She knows everything. I’m an open book to her soul. Even more than before, when I kept talking to her for hours. I realize that the reverse is true as well. I freeze.
Mistress Z. used to be an extraordinarily beautiful girl. She played handball, even in the European championship for a couple of years. Then she married Mister Z. --her high school crush-- and got pregnant and moved at the farm owned by her in-laws. And that was it. Opaque and mute, tears make way, flooding her eyes.
I know everything about her. Every corner of her soul is open to me now. The same as she knows everything about me, every corner of my soul is open to her now. We embrace. We cry together.
“Hey, horse dick! Nice field you’ve got yourself. Game for a drink?” The universe is falling apart. An invisible wind had all the candles blown away, to darkness. Even the torches are extinct. Which is quite intriguing for the men, because they know too well how much oil they’d filled in, earlier on. Enough to burn till dawn.
Don turns on the lantern on his phone. Mister Z. turns the halogens in the backyard by remote. The intruder, carefully fixing his bicycle on the fence, approaches the garden table next to the swing.
Hands shaken, introductions, short remarks, laughs. Mistress Z. informs me, telepathically, about their neighbor from down across the street. After parking his tractor, after taking care of his animals, he runs to Mister Z. for a drink, or two, or three. Not exactly the best company. Especially when it’s a daily occurrence. For decades.
Mister Z. is the fat guy and here’s why: because he won’t say no to bad habits. This neighbor is a habit. Isn’t he? Mistress Z. confirms. Let me handle this.
Taking off my clothes, all short of my orange fishnet stockings, I boldly advance towards the table. Greeting the men sitting around, I target the newcomer with a sharp stare. I grab his chin in my left hand while my right aims for his crotch.
“I want you to get hard for me. Here and now. I want you to fuck me. Here and now. In front of your neighbor. In front of my husband. In front of your neighbor’s wife. Fuck me! Fuck me now!!”
The poor man tries to adapt to a new situation. Visibly taken aback by his lack of composure, notably the incapacity of getting his dick on attention. But my hand won’t stop. My fingers, working his zipper, reaching his boxers, making inroads un-until-- the man can’t stand sitting, turns around and runs amok. Forgetting his bicycle on the fence.
What a laughter, loud and rolling on the grass, almost.
The men lighten up the torches, careful not to burn themselves. I join Mistress Z. with a new set of wooden sticks to light up all the pumpkins on the field. I move around naked. In spite of the chill brought in by this last night of October. I won’t endure the cold because I’ve learned how to make good use of my inner heat within the square. Pumpkins are not drumming any more, they waltz now. Mistress Z. sings a peasants dance. At her flute, yes.
“Half past ten. Get ready for the moonrise,” announces my man, a bit solemn, a bit phlegmatic. Time to open his bag with cameras. The sky is clear. Thank God.
The Moon, rather a croissant slipping off a silver plate, cracks above the horizon to the East. “Ladies,” marks the Fotomann, “we’re gonna take some photos under the moonshine. Please move slowly, and I mean slow-wly. Or rather freeze whenever you’ll hear the beep. Okay?”
He speaks the words rounded, playing the director of a play that no one wrote. Mister Z., presumably instructed by my man, unravels a white fabric in a flexible frame. He wants to mirror the moonshine over the models. That’s us! Mistress Z. and me. I am so happy to make this photo sitting in two. Not alone. It feels like home. And you!, don’t ask me why.
We smile to each other. We hug. We dance --but have to freeze when hearing the beep. We sing and kiss. We’re having a wonderful time together.
Mistress Z. dressed all the time --as she’s been ever since we met in the afternoon.
Me? Just in my fishnets. Up to my thighs. And nothing else. That should be my ‘working costume’ --as they used to say.
“A quarter to midnight,” infers Don, instead of calling it a session. “Ladies, you may dress now. And let us all have a couple more of those pumpkin pies. Ain’t ya hungry?” Mister Z. helps with packing the stuff in. Mistress Z. brings my clothes closer, allowing me to dress at my own pace. We’re holding hands. Whenever we can. It’s such an emotional energy, flowing between us. We’re charging batteries. Just by touching our hands. We’re being jolly and sorry at the same time. Just by looking into each other’s eyes. We’re being here for each other. Just by standing in front of our men. If you can feel our unspoken words, our untold thoughts, then what is all that’s left for sex?, for the physical copulation? Because what we’ve got here goes beyond sex. Way beyond. Non sexual orgasms exist. And these are the best to have.
Eating the pumpkin pies together --around the table, indulging in small talk --one at a time, we realize that there’s not much left to say. Or show.
À propos show. How can Don miss the occasion? Well, he can’t. Because he just can’t help himself.
“Do you wish I show you something?” He brags. I so hate when he brags. Seems like everyone can sense it. But he doesn’t care. Never did. Will he ever?
“Sure. Show us. What is that you wish to show us?”
Everyone is game. Bragging or no bragging, people want to play the game first.
“Let us go to the middle of the pumpkins field. Right there in the middle of the square.” My man is already herding us.
Entering the perimeter again, I get the drumbeat impression. So I stop. To confirm. Nope. It is not ‘that’ drumbeat. No jumping pumpkins. Hmm. Rather a swoosh. A sensation that circulates throughout the air. Not the ground.
Smiling my way, Don makes the temple tap gesture. So I tap my right temple with the pointer and middle finger of the right hand. The swooshes develop a geometry around them. They are four, coming respectively from each rod. From a dozen female screws dashing the rods up and down. Speedily. Three baked nuts on each rod. How on earth do they cross over? No idea. No matter how. They glow green, the female screws. And a swoosh is a second. No more. No less.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” pause as if he’d expect some applause or something, “let me show you the Far Side of the Moon. Ta-daaa!”
Unbelievable. Yet visible. The silvery croissant in the sky revolves. Around its own axis, yes. The Moon spins in our eyes --as seen from the pumpkins field.
“Jesus Maria und Josef,” exclaims Mister Z., “I’ll run to the house to bring my binoculars. Don, do I have the time?”
“Take your time, Mister Z. Get those binoculars so we can put them to good use.” He’s bragging again. Showing off like the smart guy he enjoys to be.
“You’ve got the fishnets, I’ve got some rods, Mister Z. has got his binoculars. Everyone’s got something.” He forgets Mistress Z. Nope, he’s not forgetting anyone. He asks me what to mention about Mistress Z. because he has no clue. He can’t read her mind. Dong.
“Mistress Z. has got the Moon. All of it. The Near Side and the Far Side. The outer and the inner. The Moon!” Speak I out loud. Enough to have the interest in the binoculars plummet at dramatic rates.
“What are you doing, Doris?” He rants at me, on a secure channel.
“I am liberating her.”
“Liberating? From what?”
“From these chains, can’t you see? Decades ago, she gave up a promising career in sports. She voluntarily accepted to slave: for her man, for his parents, for their children, for the neighbors, for this and for that. A housewife is a slave. Mistress Z. is a housewife. So let me tell you: she deserves the Moon. And don’t you dare take the Moon away from her. Do you hear me?, my Teddy Bear!”
“Uhm, so I should forget these rods here, as they are now, planted in the garden of Mistress and Mister Z. You saying, eh?”
“Correct. This is what I am saying. This is what you’re gonna do.”
“Those baked nuts are no trivial stuff.”
“You’ve got dozens more at home. And you can bake more anytime you wish.”
“Fair enough. Are you sure that this new opening won’t harm them? The Z’s, I mean.”
“Harm them? How?”
“You’re giving her undisclosed access to the Switzerland-of-the-Galaxy. You know too well that the Moon is brimming with diplomats and spies and traders and--”
“And traitors. I know. There’s no Hollywood enough to stage the reality show that runs inside the Moon. And this makes it simple: no one would believe Mistress Z.”
“What if they take her to the nuthouse?”
“They won’t. I am teaching her how to mimic ‘normal’ for whatever this society wants to call it normal.”
“Hey Don,” interrupts Mister Z. from beneath his binoculars, “what’s that tower breaking the horizon? Oh, and look, there’s another tower. A-and another one. Oh my God.”
“They’re calling it New Berlin. It’s one of the few lunar bases that made it to become a city: large enough, complex enough, crucial enough to merge adjacent bases.”
“A city on the Moon? Cities on the Moon? Uhm. I hardly like the cities here on earth. What a stupid thing to have cities on the Moon. Why do people want to live in cities. Ain’t the countryside just fine?”
“Hundred percent agree with you, Mister Z. Now let me show you something about nuts and bolts. Something really simple.” That’s my man. He’s instructing Mister Z. on the trivial procedures of maintenance for the rods and the square they cover. “--Oh, and never ever drive a tractor over this field, inside the square. That can be dangerous. Even lethal. You understand security standards for tractors, harvesters and such. This, sir, is a darn dangerous machine. Use it with much care.”
“Have you entered his fingerprints in the database?” I ask my man. He nods, affirmative. “How about you adding hers?” He returns the question. I reverse the answer. Affirmative.
There are only four persons on earth who, when entering this square over the pumpkins field, will see the Moon turning.
Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, Doris DawnWrite a Review