by Mr. W
He hefted the last crate into the truck bed and clapped the dirt off his work gloves. That was it; the last of this year’s bumper crop of carrots was on its way.
It was unusual to sell out so early in the season. The buyer had paid in cash, also unusual. He figured that the buyer was trying to break into the distribution business without joining the union. None of his concern.
Seventeen days later, the Philadelphia Carrot Bomb toppled the day’s headlines. The phone handset was slippery in his sweating hand; he couldn’t remember how to dial Information. Then, on the TV, the remote cameraman zoomed in on one of the devastating carrots lying on the sidewalk, drizzled in blood.
He relaxed into his easy chair. It was a completely different kind of carrot than the ones he grew.