Content warning: blood mention, implied murder

Every year, we skimmed off the top of your harvest. Taxes, we said. Easy enough to collect food for ourselves in the name of food for all without lifting a finger.

But who followed up on that yield distribution?

I should’ve realized you would.

You took your time. Let us ripen, before you arrived for a different harvest. A nighttime harvest. One no one would follow up on to find where we’d gone.

You left only stubble behind. A smear of blood here and there. Enough to fertilize the land for next time.

Because there would be more of us.

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