**NOTE**
A bit of explanation is required, because this isn't exactly a story that is easy to read. It is a social commentary on extremism. Read it as such, and you may catch its absurdity... and maybe even understand it.
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The moon was bright in the starless night sky, and cast its sharp beam onto an old house. A light was on in a small room high up on the third level, and The Chords streamed through an open window into the cool night air. There was something about the R&B style with pop shadings that caught the attention of the people in this small town in northeastern Kansas, and specifically, the attention of the old man that lived in a house that was way too big for him - especially because he lived there alone.

A light breeze twisted its way along a large corn field and through the old man's beautiful rose garden before pulling the scents up into the window and past the dreaming man's nose.

His eyes popped open.

Someone was in his rose garden.

The man stood on rickety knees that hadn't been sturdy for ten years. He pulled a large hunting riffle from behind a heavy wooden door, and pushed the barrel through the open window. His shadow loomed across the yard, the shadow of the barrel touching a hunched over person messing with his rose garden.

The old man fired, but it was only a warning shot. "Get out of my yard. Play in the corn if you wish, but out of the roses!'�

Wild eyes flashed up at him, the light from the window causing them to burn. The voice that came back to him didn't match those evil eyes, and practically trembled with fear. "Sorry sir, they are just so beautiful. I could smell them blocks away as I came on my bicycle. I wanted to pick one for my mam'. Please don't shoot me.'�

The old man chuckled to himself for his foolishness at being frightened by those eyes, but his rasping voice didn't show any kindness. "Leave,'� he boomed.

The frightened child ran from the field, but secretly had already taken a rose and put it in her pocket. She was never seen again.

***

The next day brought bright sun with the cool breeze. As flowers always do, the beautiful roses turned their faces toward the sun. The old man took great care of the flowers, and spent most of the day with dirt smeared on his face as he gave careful attention to each of the one hundred plants. His wife had planted the bushes, which is why he cared for them so. She had died the same year the old man's knees began to give him trouble. There was only one line in her will when she died which read "please take care of my roses.'� The dirt was unusually soft today, which made the conditions perfect for pulling weeds.

When the sun began to set, the old man went back into his house, washed the dirt off his face and hands, and sat down to eat. His plate was full of a variety of meats and cheeses. With his wife being such a fanatic about roses, she wouldn't allow them to be herbivores. The old man got accustomed to not eating plants, and now even preferred it that way. His wife mentioned how vegetarians always believed they shouldn't eat meat because it was cruel to eat a living thing. To her, plants were living things, and she showed her disdain for the 'murderous plant eaters' by slaughtering their cowherds and serving them for dinner. Even the corn was never harvested, except to feed the cows. This gave the old man's wife even more of an excuse to kill the cows, because they turned into 'murderous plant eaters' themselves.

So the man ate his little-less-than-vegan plate, and went upstairs to enjoy his music and rest for the evening.

He climbed his winding staircase, and entered his room. A bare bulb in the middle of his old wooden décor snapped to life as he flipped the switch. The old man walked to his record player and set the needle carefully on his worn record. He then walked to the window, and cracked it so the smell of the roses could permeate the room. He sunk into his overstuffed lounge chair, and began to puff nonchalantly on a pipe. Before long, his eyes grew heavy, and sleep overcame him.

***

The old man woke before the sun came up, probably just after he fell asleep, to a knock at his door. His pipe had fallen out of his mouth and burned a small hole in the chair he sat in, but the ashes were now cool. He cursed at himself before trying to steady his knees. "Come in!'� he yelled, "I'm old, and can't get downstairs very fast. I'm upstairs. Come up if you must.'�

There was a pause as the old man's voice echoed around him. After a moment of waiting, when all the echoing ceased, a response came, the voice distant. "It is the police, sir. May we speak to you for a moment?'�

The old man blinked and rubbed his eyes. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong, so he saw no harm. The police were at his door as fast as he could answer.

"Please sit down,'� a young gentleman commanded. He pushed his raven black hair out of his piercing blue eyes and back under his cap. "I'm the chief of this police force,'� he started, "and I have a few questions regarding a little girl who was seen ridding her bike by your house last night. She has been missing for 24 hours now. Your neighbors,'� he said, motioning to the window, where a dark silhouette of a house could be seen in the distance with a thin trail of smoke rising from its chimney, "said they heard a gunshot last night. Will you explain this, sir?'�

"The roses,'� the old man pleaded, seeming frail, "she was in the roses. I didn't know who was there. I didn't shoot her! I only fired into the oak tree in the middle of the cornfield. That is how I scare away people from the roses?'�

"People?'�

"'� and animals.'�

The chief gave a wry smile. "You are eccentric old man. Did you see the little girl actually leave the flower patch?'�

"Rose garden.'�

"Did you see her leave the rose garden then?'�

"I saw her running from the rose garden, but it is quite large. I didn't actually see her leave the yard, no.'�

"We found her bike, next to your fence. She never left your property.'�

The old man was silent. He didn't know what to say.

The chief got a twisted look on his face; a mien of catching the guilty red handed. "We'll be back with a warrant to search your property for her body.'�

The old man followed the police officers out, his head hanging low. How could he prove he didn't kill the little girl? Could a bicycle be enough to convict him? Would the police dig up his wife's garden looking for her body? What really did happen to her? he wondered as his feeble knees walked him into the night, the officers pulling away in their cars. He thought his life was over, and why shouldn't it be? No one cared about the old man, no one would miss him, and no one would doubt that he killed her.

"I need comfort,'� he said to himself, walking across the yard and into the rose garden. Here the fragrance of the flowers filled his nostrils with the sweet smell of life. The damp earth under his feet gave way slightly to his weight, a feeling he loved to enjoy, only now, it just felt like sinking. He leaned over and smelled one of the newly blooming buds. After he did, he looked at it curiously. "Ludicrous rose. Because of you I will go to prison!'� he exclaimed, breaking off the bud.

The old man heard a quick movement behind him, followed by a sharp pain just behind his knee. It caused such pain that he fell immediately to the ground. He cried out, and reaching behind him he pulled a thorn from his flesh. His fingers were sticky, covered in blood. He looked up to the sky, wondering who would come to help him; how long he would have to wait until someone would notice he was lying here unable to walk amongst the roses? Then, above him, he thought he was dreaming. A beautiful rose, a large bud as big as his head, turned toward him. It seemed to slither toward him on its branch, until its pedals were only inches from his face. In the moonlight it looked as though this bud had lips, pressed outward, ready to kiss him. As the wind blew calmly through the garden, it sounded like a whisper, You took care of us so long, and now you kill one of us. Betrayer.

Suddenly the thorned branches beat upon him. How the old man cried out in pain. They tightened, and began pulling him downward. Down. Down. Down he went until he couldn't breathe. Yet down further, deeper into his garden they pulled him. As his eyes grew dark from suffocation, he thought he heard the ominous laugher of the wind, followed by the bantering whisper from one rose to another, -Murderous man eater!-

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