The floors creaked as John made his way through his house, having entered from the back door. As he passes by his kitchen, he notices through the window an oddly dressed figure standing by the edge of his wheat field with their back turned towards him.

The figure wore a pair of brown boots that looked so heavily worn they appeared to have seen the ends of the world a thousand times, and journeyed back a thousand more.

With their right hand tucked away in a pocket and their left hand hanging by their side, the figure wore a slick black suit, complimented by a pair of black pants that appeared silky smooth to the touch. 

Both pieces of clothing looked so clean they looked like they were tailored yesterday.

Around the figure’s neck, wrapped a silky white scarf that swayed gently against the wind, cutting a streak of white behind the figure.

To complete their bizarre outfit, sitting atop the figure’s head, was a black leather hat that looked almost as rugged as their boots. Another piece of clothing that seemed no stranger to the chill of rain and the scorch of sunlight.

John walks toward the front door, his eyes move to the newcomer each time he passes a window. He notes to himself how anyone dressed like that on a farm was usually there to buy the land or sell some of their “enhanced” fertilizers.

As he gets to the doorway, John opens the door and firmly calls out to the figure.

“Can I help you?”

The stranger doesn’t reply. They don’t even turn to look at him. 

John glances at a clock on the wall behind him. 

4:45 p.m. Too late to be expecting the usual visitors for the day.

Too early to assume that new ones won’t come though.

John turns back to the stranger, who only continues gazing out at the field, his back still firmly turned.

John begins down the steps of his porch, hearing the door thud to a close behind him as he walks towards the stranger. He does his best to make his footsteps as heavy as possible to keep the stranger aware of his approach.

There was something off about the newcomer, John felt it. 

There was a sense of inferiority and anxiety building deep within him as he came nearer to the figure. Yet something told him that the figure was of no immediate threat to him. 

No. It was the figure who felt that John was of no threat to them.

Like a predator, watching prey approach them when they weren’t hungry.

The skies dim as a wave of clouds envelop the sun, bending the world around them as a veil of gray engulfed the field of beige. 

Stopping just a few steps short of the figure, John cautiously asks, “Hey, I’m gonna have to ask wh-” 

“You know it’s funny,” the figure interrupts, their voice deep and smooth. 

“I could almost feel at peace, gazing out at this vast plane of vibrant lush.” The stranger takes their right hand out of their pocket and crosses their arms across their chest.

“A simple field. Sowed of seeds that will be reaped to feed thousands. Innocently swaying against the autumn breeze.

A humble patch of nurtured land.  Ignorant to its virginity as a battlefield upon which thousands will come to breathe their last.”

The figure kneels down on one knee, gently running his hand against the soil before picking up a handful and bringing it closer to their face to examine. 

“I find it pathetic. That you creatures have it all in the palm of your hands but choose to cast it to the wind, in a desperate reach for desire and greed,” the figure continues, spreading open his palm and tilting it to let the soil fall back to where it was drawn from.

“You believe yourselves righteous, in your journey to understand the miracles around you.” The figure adds, “When in reality you are fools, to neglect the very ground from which you erect your abominations of steel and glass.”

You believe yourselves noble, in your childish attempts to reign power over each other. When in reality you are pitiful. Believing that order could ever be sewn by the same hands that forged in destruction. 

You believe yourselves protagonists, on a glorious journey to transcend the heavens and grasp, ever further, at the promises beyond. When in reality you remain as you were the day you were created. Insignificant specs within the cosmos, mindlessly digging towards the hellish infernos beneath you.”

The stranger rises, dusting off soil from his pants. They raise a hand to pull their white scarf over their mouth and their rugged hat over their eyes. 

The stranger turns to face John, who now stood in speechless silence behind him. 

John couldn’t make out their face. The shadow cast by their hat made it impossible to do so. 

“Take heed, Farmer, there will be creatures who come for these lands and the beauty you’ve cultivated. But they won’t descend from the clouds, nor seep through cracks in the earth. They will come from the same concrete roads you traverse to town on each day. 

Take heed, Farmer, there will come a day when these fields of green remember only the crimson of men, the silver of their steel, and the blackness of their hearts. They will bicker and they will claw, and they will feast their grips of destruction around all their eyes behold. 

Take heed, Farmer, there will come a day when you are fed upon by the very mouths you and your family dedicated your lives to feed. For it is not enough, that your people have defiled the very utopia left to them by time. They will only sate, after they have consumed anything that can be felt to the touch.

Take heed, Human, your kind have waged war against the very Eden that bestowed you life. 

And they have obliged.

You have declared your road to annihilation, and we have been called to ensure your journey is swift.”

The clouds above them finally pass, lifting the blanket of gray from the field.

John flinches as the sun’s abrupt emergence from beneath the clouds strike his eyes to a close.

By the time he opened them, the figure had disappeared.