There it was the garden I had been working on for months now. I had tilled and watered, fertilized, and conditioned the soil. I had watered it with sweat and irradiated it with the sunlight of effort. I drove up from work got out of the car and left my briefcase in the car. I pulled my work shirt off leaving my undershirt and headed straight for the shed, skipping the obligatory entrance into the house. The shed was dank and had the distinct smell of ant killer and gasoline. It yawned hungrily with its own ghosts but it knew better than to try and bite the hand that stores its belongings in it. I grabbed the crate of seeds. They giggled and shifted noisily in response to the movement. Their iridescent surfaces were tiny landscapes of terrible writhing concepts, and philosopharian monstrosity turned and stared expectantly at what comes next. Using a hoe and my will wreathed in reality I cut into the immaculate soil rows. I then began to sift through the seeds. They felt smooth and warm. Their tiny heartbeats tickled the skin of my fingers. I stared at the cacophony of shapes and colors, of religious and political iconography. I stared and allowed their broadcasted visions to play across my sunsetting mind. Then with horror and delight, I realized that all my enjoying of the seeds had mixed them without recourse or hope of separating them again. So like a man who has already crossed the blood-filled rubicon I took a handful of the assorted seeds and began to press my finger into the dirt. Into each hole, I placed a single seed. Each seed's siren song was then muffled by the dirt pressed over it. I smiled because I knew that beyond this all I could do was water them and hope for the best. Days passed, the seeds muffled distant call rose from the dirt. At first, it attracted bugs that wandered in my garden. I imagined from their perspective they found themselves in a wasteland of rich loose soil, seeking out that song that drove them forward. Then birds began to hop about my garden. Their beaks would plunge into the dirt only to find it stuck fast. Then slowly but with assurance the bird would be drawn into the earth, to the realm the terrible seeds had formed. First the spouts with their blood-red leaves and the purple veins filled with sap like ichor. Then the stalks clawed their way out of the soil. Each with terrible flower bloomed that undulated and twirled about with hypnotic movements. Then the flower petals withered and were caught on the wind and drifted towards the nearest war. The fruit took sharp. It growled and begged me to come closer. I knew better though. It would only be safe to harvest when the moon was full and the mayor cast his secrets into the koi pond. East Texas is perfect for growing squash and these zucchinis did not disappoint.