It was supposed to be another still, ordinary evening over the rolling cornfields of Missouri. The air hummed with the early summer buzz of crickets, and the sun dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a gentle blue that sank into a deep, enveloping black. Above, the stars had started to emerge—first timid and scattered, and then in droves, filling the sky with flickering lights that winked down at the Earth below.
And then, a new light appeared—a sudden, blinding glare that slashed across the quiet town and hovered, hovering like an uninvited guest in a darkened room.
At first, the town’s scattered residents barely noticed. Sure, there was a shimmer out there that wasn’t there before, something large and silver, but the rural folks of Lumsdale had seen stranger things. “It’s a fancy drone,” said one local. “Probably some government experiment,” muttered another. But one man was too busy to see the strange new light dancing across his fields; his attention was firmly planted in his greenhouse.
Hank Connelly, a fifth-generation farmer, was inspecting his latest crop of tomatoes under the dim green grow lights. The fruits hung fat and glossy in rows as far as the greenhouse stretched. Hank worked alone, muttering to himself as he pinched a stray leaf here and there, careful not to bruise the fragile stems.
Hank's day typically started here, among rows of green-stalked plants stretching up toward the greenhouse’s plastic ceiling. He ran his fingers along the waxy leaves, checking each for the telltale spots that could hint at fungus or bugs. "Gotta keep you alive, you little beauties," he murmured, brushing dirt from a few of the tomatoes that had ripened early. Hank took pride in his greenhouse—the air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of rich soil mixed with faint hints of chlorophyll, earthy and comforting. The rows of tomato vines looked almost like old friends, their roots burrowed deep in pots of dark soil, warmed by the sun during the day and his heaters at night.
Hank’s gaze drifted to the top of the greenhouse, where sunlight filtered in a soft, lazy haze. This was his routine—warm mornings, plants rustling faintly in the gentle breeze from the open windows, his boots pressing familiar grooves into the dirt floor. A small ache tugged at his back as he bent to inspect another vine, but the satisfaction outweighed the twinge. Sure, some people scoffed when he said he grew tomatoes for pharmaceutical companies, but Hank knew better. These plants weren’t just money; they were medicine, the kind that actually helped people. Maybe it was silly, but the idea that something he grew could end up healing someone miles away kept him grounded.
That’s when it happened.
With a rush of sound like a tornado coming to a dead stop, the light enveloped Hank. He turned around, blinking hard as it overtook him. Then, with the surreal feeling that comes only to those certain that they’re living through the most bizarre moment of their lives, Hank felt himself lifted up, up, up off the greenhouse floor. The ground shrank beneath him, and with a sensation like breaking the surface of a very cold pond, he vanished.
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“Evenings with Earthlings”
Episode 1: The Farmer and the Tomatoes
A bright blue screen flickered on, revealing a sleek, futuristic stage: chrome walls curved gracefully upward, and strange, pulsing lights flowed around the set like liquid metal. In the center, three tall, slender beings stood in identical shimmering robes, their skin a deep emerald and their elongated heads crowned with thin, shimmering fronds that fanned outward. They stood around a raised, circular dais, a place of honor for whatever specimen would occupy it next.
“Welcome, one and all, to Evenings with Earthlings, the newest and most anticipated intergalactic hit from the Terratarian Broadcasting Corporation!” chimed the tallest of the aliens, gesturing expansively toward the blue-green orb displayed on a massive hologram behind them.
“Today,” said the second alien, “we embark on our first contact with the inhabitants of the remote but oh-so-fascinating planet they call ‘Earth.’ And what a specimen we have to begin with!”
The third alien, who appeared to be the one managing the controls, pressed a gleaming button. With a deep, resonant hum, a beam of light shot down to the dais and deposited Hank with a soft thud. He lay there on the cool, polished floor, blinking in disorientation.
“What in tarnation?” Hank muttered as he pushed himself up, one hand on the brim of his ball cap. His eyes darted around the stage, taking in the glimmering walls and the three tall, oddly serene figures staring down at him. It took a few long, silent moments before Hank seemed to make sense of it.
“Am I... am I on TV?” he asked, his voice somewhere between awe and irritation.
“Yes, dear Terratarian viewers, here we have our first guest!” the tallest alien announced, their voice smooth and melodic, like the purr of a well-oiled engine. “An inhabitant of the rural sector of Earth’s agricultural regions, a grower of what they call ‘tomatoes’!”
“Tomatoes,” repeated the second alien, as if the word itself were a revelation. “Fascinating specimens that we are most eager to explore.”
Hank, however, did not share their enthusiasm. He looked from one alien to another, his mouth slightly open, his gaze confused but assessing. “Now, hold on here just a minute. Who are you, and what are you doin’ with me?”
The second alien placed a reassuring, if distant, hand on Hank’s shoulder, which he promptly shrugged off. “We are the Terratarians, visitors from a civilization many light-years from here. We’ve selected you to share with our viewers the wondrous complexities of human culture. Welcome to Evenings with Earthlings.”
“Well, you better put me back,” Hank said firmly. “I got crops to tend to, and I don’t have time for no alien interviews.”
The third alien tilted their head, blinking slowly. “Crops?” they repeated, their voice a monotone of unfamiliarity. “This term... translates as ‘intentionally manipulated organic growth formations,’ correct?”
Hank blinked, utterly baffled. “Uh... yeah? I reckon that’s close enough.”
“Excellent!” The tallest alien clasped its hands in delight. “Then perhaps we may proceed. Please, Hank Connelly, enlighten our audience—what is it that you grow?”
Hank squinted at the camera, adjusting his cap. “Well, I got tomatoes, for starters. Got fields of ’em. Greenhouses, too. Not that y’all would know what to do with a tomato.”
The aliens exchanged glances that seemed almost gleeful. “Yes, indeed,” said the third alien, their voice bright with interest. “We are most curious about the tomato and its... uses.”
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“Right,” Hank said, shifting uncomfortably. “Well, they’re technically for food, but most of mine end up goin’ to the drug companies.”
There was a pause as the aliens took in this information. The second alien tilted their head again. “For... the consumption of nutrients?”
“No,” Hank said slowly. “For medicine. They use the nutrients and chemicals in tomatoes to make pills and treatments. Ain’t that obvious?”
The aliens exchanged a series of quick glances, their eyes bright and intrigued. “This tomato is…a healing fruit?” one of them asked, as though tasting the concept on an alien tongue.
“Well, sorta,” Hank replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Pharmaceutical companies extract some of the chemicals in tomatoes for different medicines, like antioxidants or something.”
The aliens tilted their heads simultaneously, intrigued. “So these… plants of yours—they do not possess inherent powers?” one of them queried, sounding a bit disappointed.
“Nah, not like magic,” Hank said, chuckling. “But they do have natural stuff that makes people healthier, bit by bit.”
One of the aliens scribbled furiously on a small tablet, as though recording a secret of great importance. Another chimed in, “In our galaxy, we have entities with medicinal abilities, but they are usually found among sentient species, not plants.” The aliens' heads bobbed in a strange, synchronized nodding motion, suggesting their profound awe. “Humans cultivate for survival, yet for others as well. Intriguing.”
They leaned closer. “What else do your kind grow for medicines?”
Hank scratched his head, considering. “Well, tomatoes aren’t the only thing. There’s a bunch of stuff—herbs, roots, all kinds of plants. You name it, and some part of it can probably help with something. Even if it don’t taste great.” He paused. “But I guess that’s not what people think of right away when they think of farmers.”
The aliens' eyes glimmered with newfound admiration, their wonder as palpable as his own slight embarrassment.
“Dear viewers,” the first alien announced, turning to the camera, “it seems that on this ‘Earth,’ humans grow sustenance primarily to create... medicines. But Mr. Connelly, if tomatoes are for healing, then... why not grow them for everyone’s use?”
“Well, it ain’t that simple,” Hank grunted, scratching his chin. “I don’t set the prices, and folks need jobs to pay for their medicine. It’s just... how things work.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured the second alien, nodding sagely. “A social structure of controlled supply and demand, regulated by what Earthlings call ‘money.’”
“Yup,” Hank replied. “That’s about the long and short of it.”
“But why,” the third alien interjected, “would humans make a life-saving element inaccessible to others? Does this not violate a logical duty to survival?”
“It’s... complicated,” Hank said with a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. He looked around, almost apologetically, as if he could see the millions of alien eyes staring at him through the camera. “People got their own way of doin’ things, I guess. You work, you pay. Or you don’t get what you need. Simple as that.”
The tallest alien placed a slender hand to their chin, the light glinting off their fronds in a way that suggested deep contemplation. “So,” they said slowly, “if humans do not grow their resources to universally benefit others, what is the purpose of one human’s labor?”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as Hank thought this over, scratching at his neck. “I dunno,” he finally said, looking down. “Folks just... need to get by. Pay the bills, feed their families. That’s what it all boils down to.”
“Ah, ‘family!’” The third alien leaned forward, clearly delighted. “Yes, yes, we are aware of this. A term denoting shared genetic resources for the purposes of progeny rearing, correct?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Hank muttered, a little thrown by the alien’s enthusiasm.
The aliens exchanged more glances, their fronds shimmering with excitement. “And the purpose of this genetic sharing?” asked the second alien eagerly. “Surely it is to perpetuate resources and ensure mutual support?”
“Uh... well, not really. I mean, yeah, you look out for your kin and all. But these days, it’s more about makin’ ends meet.”
“Makes... ends meet?” The aliens leaned closer, intrigued.
“It means… gettin’ by,” Hank said, his voice heavy with resignation. “It ain’t perfect, but it’s what we got. You work hard, hope it’s enough. Keep the family goin’.”
There was a long silence. The aliens looked to each other, as if searching for words, and then back to Hank.
“Our viewers, I believe, are most astonished by your admission,” the first alien said softly. “To labor, simply to survive... and yet without full assurance of your survival. It is... paradoxical.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Hank muttered.
The second alien touched their chin thoughtfully. “Tell us, Mr. Connelly, do you take joy in this task? In this toil?”
Hank looked down, hesitating. Sure, he loved the land, the pride of nurturing something into life, but there was an exhaustion, too—an unspoken burden that weighed on his heart. He couldn’t help but remember the mornings when the crops had been poor, when rising costs and slim margins turned the reward of the harvest into a reminder of just how precarious his life really was.
His father’s words came to him then, years back when he’d first started on the family farm, fresh out of school and full of dreams. “The land gives, but she takes, too. You gotta be tougher than her, Hank.” He’d chuckled back then, but now the words rang like prophecy. So he’d stuck it out, holding on because it was all he knew, hoping for a good season every year like it was some kind of lottery.
Hank clenched his jaw. How could he explain this to a bunch of aliens who could sail through the stars? They wouldn’t understand working under a sky that sometimes turned on you, the droughts, the bugs, the hailstorms that swept in just before a good harvest. They might not get why anyone would put up with that kind of uncertainty year after year, just to keep their family on a patch of dirt.
But what else would he be doing? He supposed he could find work in the city, maybe something easier, less risky. But he knew in his bones that he wouldn’t leave, even if he could. There was a quiet satisfaction to it, a pride in growing things that no alien would probably understand. Hank took a breath, steeling himself to answer.
“Joy? I reckon so. I get a feelin’ of pride, y’know? Satisfaction. You plant a thing, watch it grow, and know that you had a hand in it.”
The aliens were silent, as if waiting for more. Hank shifted uneasily and continued, “Look, life ain’t all about thinkin’ big. Sometimes, you just gotta look after your little corner of the world. Make it grow.”
“Yes,” the first alien mused. “Your corner of existence... tended by your own hands, bringing forth sustenance and order. But at what cost?”
“Everythin’ costs,” Hank replied bluntly. “Doesn’t matter where you’re from, I guess. You put in work, you pay. And sometimes, that’s good enough.”
The aliens exchanged glances once more, the light around them dimming as if in quiet contemplation. Then the tallest one raised their hand, gesturing toward the camera.
“Viewers, we have learned much today about Earth’s humble cultivators, who labor endlessly for survival, finding purpose not in grand ideologies but in simple, steadfast actions. Mr. Connelly, a final question, if we may?”
Hank nodded slowly, bracing himself.
“What, to you, is ‘enough?’”
Hank took a breath, feeling the weight of the question settle over him. He looked back at the camera, his gaze steady.
“Enough... is bein’ able to look yourself in the mirror. Knowin’ you did your best. Lookin’ after what you can, even if it’s just tomatoes.”
The aliens nodded, their eyes soft with a newfound understanding.
“Thank you, Hank Connelly,” said the tallest alien with solemn respect. “You’ve given us a glimpse of humanity’s heart. We are... grateful. Please, accept our gift.”
And, with a final flash, the light enveloped him once more. When it receded, Hank found himself standing in his greenhouse, surrounded by the quiet rows of tomatoes, just as if he’d never left at all. The only thing that was different, he found when he resumed his work, was the twinge in his back - it was gone.