I was west of Arkham, Massachusetts, driving back to Kentucky, when I noticed the old man selling irresistible tomatoes on the shoulder of the road. I pulled to a stop and was overwhelmed by the quality of the plants. The man, however, was another story.
He was hunched over his upturned crate that he used as a table. His gray, patchy hair hung in clumps, partially obscuring his deeply lined face. One eye was fogged over and the other dully watched me with a keen dark intelligence. His flaky lips parted into a smile, revealing brown teeth. “Care for a plant? Top quality only at my stand.” His voice was like sandpaper.
I bought a plant. How could I resist? They truly were magnificent. As I drove away, he watched me until he disappeared over the hill behind me.
I became suspicious of the tomatoes not long after crossing the first state border. I rolled down the window to allow the stench out. It was unlike anything I’d smelled in my life. At first I thought it was the soil, but whatever it was stank of corruption, and I thought nothing so magnificent as those tomatoes could grow in something so putrid. After an hour or so I became noseblind so long as the window was down.
As I neared Kentucky, the sun had nearly set. My headlights carved my path through the country roads to home. An odd sort of light dully illuminated the back of the car. I repeatedly checked my mirrors, thinking a pair of headlights were following me, but I was alone. As the night fully settled in around me, only then did I notice the light was coming from the plant itself.
It was an indescribable color. Almost as if it was off the spectrum of classification, somewhere beyond ultraviolet and I was forbidden to even witness it. But there it was, radiating enough to light the interior of my car.
I pulled into my gravel driveway and stretched my legs, surprised at how crisp and fresh the air smelled compared to the corrupted scent I was exposed to for fifteen hours. Oddly, the clean air nearly repulsed me. My eyes were very dry and burned. I assumed from the drive.
I removed the plant from the car and placed it on my porch, not wanting the smell to permeate through the entire house. I looked forward to adding it to the garden in the morning. Whatever the twisted old man had done to them, they were blue ribbon tomatoes.
In the morning I awoke late. I assumed I overslept due to my exhaustion due to the long drive. My dreams were of the strange color that emanated from the tomato plant. The weird dream made the color seem as if it was sentient. It lived in a well and it burned.
I stepped out on my porch and was saddened to see the tomatoes had all putrefied. The vibrantly green plant now supported deflated dripping skins where my prize tomatoes were as recently as last night. Brown fluid drooled from splits and the awful stench nearly turned my stomach.
I quickly salvaged whatever seeds I could find and replanted them in a starter tray in my dining room. After several hours I turned off the grow light. Miraculously, tiny twin-leafed sprigs had sprouted from the soil. It took me a moment to realize that the leaves retained the strange radiance of the grow lamp bulb despite my having turned it off.
The air around me seemed exceedingly dry. My lips were cracked, and my throat was parched. I scratched my elbow as I downed a glass of water, but nothing seemed to satiate my sudden thirst. The plants, however, were thriving. Somehow, they’d grown another inch in the past few moments.
He was hunched over his upturned crate that he used as a table. His gray, patchy hair hung in clumps, partially obscuring his deeply lined face. One eye was fogged over and the other dully watched me with a keen dark intelligence. His flaky lips parted into a smile, revealing brown teeth. “Care for a plant? Top quality only at my stand.” His voice was like sandpaper.
I bought a plant. How could I resist? They truly were magnificent. As I drove away, he watched me until he disappeared over the hill behind me.
I became suspicious of the tomatoes not long after crossing the first state border. I rolled down the window to allow the stench out. It was unlike anything I’d smelled in my life. At first I thought it was the soil, but whatever it was stank of corruption, and I thought nothing so magnificent as those tomatoes could grow in something so putrid. After an hour or so I became noseblind so long as the window was down.
As I neared Kentucky, the sun had nearly set. My headlights carved my path through the country roads to home. An odd sort of light dully illuminated the back of the car. I repeatedly checked my mirrors, thinking a pair of headlights were following me, but I was alone. As the night fully settled in around me, only then did I notice the light was coming from the plant itself.
It was an indescribable color. Almost as if it was off the spectrum of classification, somewhere beyond ultraviolet and I was forbidden to even witness it. But there it was, radiating enough to light the interior of my car.
I pulled into my gravel driveway and stretched my legs, surprised at how crisp and fresh the air smelled compared to the corrupted scent I was exposed to for fifteen hours. Oddly, the clean air nearly repulsed me. My eyes were very dry and burned. I assumed from the drive.
I removed the plant from the car and placed it on my porch, not wanting the smell to permeate through the entire house. I looked forward to adding it to the garden in the morning. Whatever the twisted old man had done to them, they were blue ribbon tomatoes.
In the morning I awoke late. I assumed I overslept due to my exhaustion due to the long drive. My dreams were of the strange color that emanated from the tomato plant. The weird dream made the color seem as if it was sentient. It lived in a well and it burned.
I stepped out on my porch and was saddened to see the tomatoes had all putrefied. The vibrantly green plant now supported deflated dripping skins where my prize tomatoes were as recently as last night. Brown fluid drooled from splits and the awful stench nearly turned my stomach.
I quickly salvaged whatever seeds I could find and replanted them in a starter tray in my dining room. After several hours I turned off the grow light. Miraculously, tiny twin-leafed sprigs had sprouted from the soil. It took me a moment to realize that the leaves retained the strange radiance of the grow lamp bulb despite my having turned it off.
The air around me seemed exceedingly dry. My lips were cracked, and my throat was parched. I scratched my elbow as I downed a glass of water, but nothing seemed to satiate my sudden thirst. The plants, however, were thriving. Somehow, they’d grown another inch in the past few moments.
I realized what I needed to do. I needed to sell them in the farmer’s market. Imagine how much money people would spend on plants such as these. More importantly, imagine how many people will propagate the magnificent seeds.
I eagerly loaded the seed starting tray into the backseat of my car and drove toward town. I parked near the farmers market set-up. Most of the vendors were already taking down their booths. I slowly climbed out of my car, my back pulled a bit as I did. I caught my reflection in the window after I shut the door. My face was deeply lined as if I was terribly dehydrated. One of my eyes had fogged a bit.
None of that mattered. All that mattered were the plants. The beautiful plants had to be sold. I placed the seed starting tray on my trunk and waited.
The plants sold themselves. I could see by the expressions on people’s faces that they were repulsed by my appearance. But the plants sold. One by one my beautiful plants sold.
* * *
Brian Barnett is the author of the middle grade novellas Graveyard Scavenger Hunt and Chaos at the Carnival. He has over three hundred publishing credits in dozens of magazines and anthologies such as the Lovecraft eZine, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Blood Bound Books, and Scifaikuest.
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