Mason Frank Bubba Novel This Land Is Mine to Defend

My neighbor diverted the raw sewage from his hog operation directly into my wheat fields.
The foul, black sludge swallowed the waist-high stalks, destroying an entire year's harvest overnight.
My dad was ready to grab a shovel and commit murder. My mom was on her knees, sobbing, begging me to run to the Councilman for help.
I stopped them both. I didn't say a single word.
The next day, I silently drained the toxic mess and planted hundreds of willow trees in the mud.
The whole town laughed, calling me an idiot. My neighbor smirked, convinced I was a coward who had accepted defeat.
Three years later, a convoy of EPA agents pulled up to his front gate.

1
The August wind should have carried the scent of ripening wheat, the sweet, dusty promise of harvest.
But standing on the ridge of my familys land, all I could smell was the gut-churning stench of rot and ammonia.
The golden waves I had nurtured were gone. In their place was a horizonless hellscape of black water.
My waist-high wheat stalks were drowning in a thick, dark sludge. The heavy heads of grain drooped into the filth like the heads of drowning victims.
Sunlight hit the surface, reflecting a sickly, iridescent oil slick. Swarms of bluebottle flies buzzed in a frenzied, chaotic cloud above it.
This was my familys only field. My entire savings. My hope.
My name is Mason. I have a degree in Agronomy.
I spent two years burning out in a city cubicle, getting laid off, and growing sick of the rat race. In the end, watching my parents age over video calls broke me. I chose to come back to the small, dying town where I was born.
I brought my degree and every cent I had to my name, determined to use scientific farming to give my parents a better life.
My crop was the best in the county. The stalks were sturdy, the kernels full. Everyone who drove past stopped to say that my college degree hadn't been a waste of time.
My dad, Franka man whos spent fifty years working dirt until his hands looked like tree barkhad been happier these past few months than Id ever seen him. Hed walk the perimeter three times a day, hands clasped behind his back, chest puffed out, grinning like a fool.
He told me that once we sold the harvest, hed bank the money for my future wedding.
Now, it was all gone.
Overnight.
Our neighbor, Bubba Vance, had expanded his hog operation.
To save money on a septic system and waste treatment, he dug a trench straight from his pits to the lowest point of the valley: my field.
Hog manure, urine, wash-water, and the chemical sting of industrial disinfectant surged down the hill, effectively drowning our livelihood in toxic waste.
"Vance! You son of a bitch!"
My dads eyes went bloodshot instantly. Veins bulged from his neck to his temples. He looked like an enraged bull seeing red.
He roared, spinning around to grab the heavy iron shovel leaning against the fence post. He was going over there to kill Bubba Vance.
"Frank! Don't do it!"
My mom, Martha, threw her arms around his waist, her knees buckling into the mud. Her wail was a sound of pure, jagged heartbreak.
"Don't go, Frank! If you hurt him, we lose everything! You'll go to jail!"
"A whole year of sweat and blood! Oh God, why are you doing this to us?"
She pounded the ground, her hands splashing into the toxic muck, sobbing until she choked.
I grabbed my dad from behind, locking my arms around his biceps. His muscles were hard as iron, shaking with adrenaline. He fought against my grip.
My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant hand, crushed, and tossed into that cesspool.