Mr. Washington's Feild
A glowing orb appears above his field. What follows is not a miracle, but our narcissism.
"Today is a solemn day. I'm going to challenge you. I have a question. Would you know Satan if you saw him? I'm not talking about a red creature, walking up to you at the crossroads, hooves smacking the cement. Right? He hands you a business card that reads Lucifer Beelzebub Satan Esquire. You didn't know the Devil was a lawyer, did you? Anyone would recognize the enemy if he came so openly.
"My book says, 'And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.' He is a trickster. A liar. The Morning Star rises in peace. Promises knowledge and invites us all to join.
"And many will.
"Not us!
"We know the Devil. We recognize the Devil. No disguise will fool us. No lie will mislead you. Satan, we see you!
Night 1
The orb floated above—small, luminous, mysterious. Its soft blue light pulsed. Below, Mr. Washington stood in his field, gazing at the object. Rows of soybeans and corn surrounded him in a green haze.
Mr. Washington was a star watcher. He'd spent many nights out in the field. Eighty-three years on Earth, and he still found new wonders. He was no stranger to unexplained objects in the sky. Never anything close to this.
Clouds of bugs fluttered about the light. Bats darted, swooping down to grab the occasional mosquito.
Mr. Washington had spent the last three years alone. Since his wife's death, he had no will to socialize. He had contact with his farm staff, of course. That was business.
It had been even longer since the war had taken their only child. Mr. Washington pushed back his tears and gazed longingly into the orb. His focus broke. A shape invaded the edge of his vision. A shadow. A human. Then another and another. As they drew closer, the blue light illuminated their faces. Most of them, Mr. Washington knew from town. By dawn, every person in town stood in Mr. Washington's field. The sphere dimmed by the bright sun.
"Yes, my brothers and sisters. My book also says, 'Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.' And he will devour. He will devour our fields. He will devour our joy. He will devour our souls!
"Why should you be afraid? We are protected by the blood of the lamb, aren't we? But our adversary is tricky. He comes to us cloaked in light and promises of forgotten knowledge. People will stand before him. They will worship him. God has mercy on those poor souls.
Night 2
As darkness spread over the field, Mr. Washington had already taken his position below the orb. So had the rest of the town. Several hundred people wandered the fields. They glared at the orb, speculating, hoping for a sign. Praying for a slip that betrayed its mystery.
Mr. Washington barely noticed the crowds. Even as they trampled his soy and bent his corn. He focused on the glowing orb. As he looked deeply into it, his own emotions reflected. A slight crimson of frustration, the subtle blue of foreboding. It called to him. Mr. Washington was a man who never meditated. But on the second night, lost in the light, he faded from his own mind.
In his trance, his mind traveled back. A day on the beach fifty years before. Beside him, his wife sunbathed with her face in a book. Mrs. Washington loved to read so much that it was hard to picture her without a book in her hand.
At their feet, their son played in the sand with a plastic bucket and shovel. His son looked up at him and spoke. Mr. Washington couldn't hear his voice anymore. But he remembered the words.
"Daddy, will you come play in the water with me?" his son silently mimed.
Of course, I will, son. There is nothing else I'd rather be doing.
Mr. Washington was smiling as the orb's glow was golden and soft. Some people had begun picking young crops off the vine. They ate them as Mr. Washington drifted in his past.
As the sun dragged above the horizon, news vans began to fill the edges of his property. The visitors drove deep scars in the land that had sustained the Washington family for generations.
"It doesn't matter where it came from, it doesn't matter what it was. It is a servant of the Devil.
"Please turn to Deuteronomy 18:10–12 and follow along with me.
"There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch,
"Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer.
"For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord: and because of these abominations the Lord thy God doth drive them out from before thee.
"That is right, brothers and sisters, there is no magic, no floating orb, that exists in God's kingdom. Keep your sons and daughters away from that evil place. Do not tread on the Devil's land, lest you fall to the same fate as he did.
Night 3
As the sun sank beneath the soy and corn, Mr. Washington's field looked more like a rock concert than a working farm. Fence built and mended with his hands torn from the Earth. Budding vegetables, the lifeblood of the Washingtons, trampled, stripped, abused. Vans of equipment straddled every spare inch of his property. Some didn't even bother to respect the vegetation, driving over it.
Mr. Washington took his spot beneath the orb, leaning on his hoe. He was blind to the mayhem that had been thrust upon his land. His eyes had grown sunken and dark. He had napped but hadn't had a full rest since the orb appeared. The orb swayed in the wind, casting flickers on the ground.
Is it waving to me or calling me to it?
A brave reporter waved her cameraman to follow. They stomped across the field, smashing plants and pushing through the crowd. The camera cable snagged on a small scarecrow, built by Mr. Washington's son. The scarecrow crashed to the Earth; straw scattered like forgotten dreams.
They stopped in front of Mr. Washington, who didn't even notice. The reporter turned to the cameraman and asked, "Are you rolling?" The cameraman nodded.
She brought the mic to her lips, "This is Linda Paine with Channel 76 evening news." Her plastic smile sparkled in the orb's light.
She asked, "Is this your field, sir?" shoving the microphone into the oblivious face of Mr. Washington.
Washington's eyes remained glued to the sphere. A flat "yes" was his only response.
Throughout the interview, people moved further into Washington's field. There were flashing cameras, loud music, and bright lighting in his face. He tried to answer the barrage of questions as best he could. The only thing he cared about was the orb. Annoyed by the blinding light, he wanted to scream.
He couldn't.
3:00 AM. Dark vans drove up the road, stopping in the middle. People poured out in long cloaks, hoods drawn tightly around their faces. Dozens flailed through the fields; shadowy faces locked on the sphere. The last of Washington's fence posts fell to the dirt.
The newcomers dropped to their knees and began to bow to the orb. They chanted in a strange language. The reporters turned their cameras on these worshipers. Mr. Washington was relieved they had taken the spotlight.
His crops were ruined.
Trampled, eaten, broken.
"One man does not bring the Devil on his own. Oh no, no, no! Hellfire doesn't walk among us with such ease. So many are complicit in his manifestation. The entire community, the media. Just look at the witches who bowed before the thing. Does this not convince you? Is it not enough for you to see druids in plain sight? Devil worshipers, I say.
"Who among you assisted? Stand now and repent before us!
"You shall judge them by their fruits! The fruit of that field are wilted, damaged, and poisoned.
We know better, brothers and sisters. We will not follow in the footsteps of Adam and Eve. We will not eat Satan's fruit!
Night 4
Mr. Washington's exhaustion grew. It spread to his marrow. He sat on the edge of his rusty wheelbarrow. Thick rain drenched the crowd. The icy water stung softly against their skin. The smell of rotting plants invaded serenity. Shouting escalated through the sea of spectators. At first joyous, but soon it turned to anger.
The elderly man stared at the orb. Feeling the light wash over his skin, he remembered his family. His first kiss with his wife. His wedding day. His son's birth. The solemn men in uniforms at his door. His wife's lifeless body lying in a coffin lowered to eternal rest.
Tears trickled across his cheeks. As the cloaked men flooded the field again, the rain washed the tears away.
3:00 AM already?
A flicker of light flashed down the road. Then another and another. An angry crowd approached on foot. The local pastor and his congregants marched in formation. They chanted, "The Devil's not welcome here!" Over and over and over again. They marched like soldiers into battle. Stomping footprints along the edge. Some held Bibles, others crosses. Their faces were taut and frightened. They encircled Mr. Washington's property, afraid to set foot on the land.
Mr. Washington didn't see the first punch, nor the second, nor the fifteenth. The brawl formed. People shouted in feral grunts. Piles of bodies, flying stones, and thrashing limbs blurred across the land. Fenceposts as clubs. Barbed wire whips. Mr. Washington's life reduced to weapons.
Then the phones dinged.
Faces glowed under cellphone lights.
A man with a bullhorn shouted, "A cow gave birth to a bright orange calf one county over!"
By the time the sun kissed the field, everyone but Mr. Washington was gone.
"If you do as I suggest, you need not worry for your soul. You have been washed in the blood of Christ.
But you must be vigilant. Satan comes on velvet wings with gilded promises. He can and will give you the world. I don't know about you, but I want more than the world. I want what can't be stored on Earth. I want God's love and grace.
Night 5
Mr. Washington stood alone in the muddy crater that was once his livelihood. He didn't care. The orb hung above, lowering. A millimeter at a time. The rain washed the mud from his face as the orb came within inches of his nose.
Staring deep into the orb, he saw his wife and son. All the happiest moments. Vacations. Parties. Working the field together.
The orb faded into a solitary image. His wife beside him, soaking up the sun, book in hand. His son played in the sand at their feet.
Mr. Washington reached out with his right hand and brushed the orb, hoping to find a path inside.
Pop!
Like a bubble, the orb evaporated. Mr. Washington was pierced by a crushing chest pain. It radiated down his left arm. He took two steps forward. He fell face down into the mud.
Mr. Washington lay in a glass casket at the front of the church. The pastor in front of him continued his speech:
"This man. This man was a victim, brothers and sisters. Look at him. He lies there before us, life gone. Too late to repent for consorting with the Devil. Had he come to church on Sunday, we could have helped him. We could have saved him. Now all we can do is pray God will shine his grace on this sinner's soul."
The congregation broke out in raucous applause and shouts of "Amen."
Night 6
What had once been Mr. Washington's field was now a gnarled pit of destruction. It sat on the outskirts of the town, riddled with ruts, potholes, and trash. Sticks and rocks blistered the land.
No fences. No prayers.
No orb. No Mr. Washington.
Only suffering silence and the crumbled remains of what once was.
The Inspiration for Mr. Washington’s Feild
I’ve been watching our society emotionally regress for a long time. What passes for personal interaction today is often little more than thinly veiled vanity, narcissism disguised as connection.
This small story about a man’s field is an exploration of that culture through the eyes of someone who’s given up on it entirely. Mr. Washington isn’t fighting to save his legacy. He’s fighting to save the memories of love.
It’s not about the orb. It’s about what we do when we think we’ve found something sacred and how quickly we turn it into content.
If you enjoyed this story, a like, comment, or restack goes a long way to help more readers find it. I try to respond to every comment personally. I love hearing what connected with you.
Next, we move from the valley fields to the mountain peak. The Mountain Takes is a slow-burn story of a son trying to reconcile his relationship with his deceased father. (7/30/25)
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Didn’t end how I expected, which was a good thing. Also really enjoyed the juxtaposition of the pastor’s sermon with the narrative. Understanding the link between the two was a rewarding solution to the mystery. Quit an enjoyable little story!
Extraordinary metaphor. Nice attention to detail— soybean does rot and smell quite quickly if damaged. The twilight zone vibe is quite clear without being trite! Best yet is the unique structure, very satisfying.