You may call it sorcery, but we call it Art. Countless generations of Gogon have worked on perfecting the technique of carving out elaborately embellished crop circles. These are all a part of a ritual to ensure the success of the crop in question.

We're a proud race, particularly in matters of our heritage. That's why many Gogon are retained, like me, as storytellers and dream weavers. Mostly, we relate to our fellow Gogon the myths surrounding The Art. It has been said many times that some of our ancestors migrated to other galaxies and that their descendants now practice The Art on other planets in order to renew their life force. I can't say for certain if that is fact or fiction; I deal only in artistic truths.

We Gogon have wicked looking claws once they're extended to the full. The sight of them has been known to make grown farmers cry for their mothers. Peaceable by nature, we only ever use our teeth and claws for defense and for The Art. Throughout many thousands of dana numerous races have waged war against us. Though our aggressors invariably won the war, we always maintain that it is we who won the peace.

Some farmers become furiously angry when they find a pattern cut into their field, believing the circles have damaged part of the crop. They're wont to go around firing guns at anything that moves in the vicinity of the circle. They just don't get it! Without The Art, their yield wouldn't be nearly as great….

Gon left the hut that had sheltered him during the rainy season. Taking with him only the tools he needed to carve out his creations, he built himself a bower near the fields. Despite the loose structure of the bower that let in light, nobody saw him because nobody expected to see him. All anyone noticed was a cluster of branches on the fringe of the forest - nothing to get excited about. It was just a part of the forest's vegetation as far as any passers-by were concerned.

Although the bower was not far from where the herds of jadna grazed, even they were unaware of Gon's presence. One raised its head occasionally, rotating its ears, radar-style, to pick up any stray sounds, but most were intent only on filling up on the succulent greenery.

A faint crackling noise alerted Gon. Peeping through the branches, he smiled inwardly as he saw the smaller, rounder version of himself that was Gonea, snuffling along the path. This little Gogon had the black eye-stripe that distinguished her as female. Pushing a hairy arm through the leaves, Gon grabbed her around her middle and dragged her, struggling and squealing, into the bower. With his superior strength he quickly overcame her, pinning her to the earth floor.

Panting for breath, she looked up at him: "Gon, is that you? Is this what I think?"

"Yes, Gonea, it's you I choose - for my bower, for the crops and for The Art."

"For The Art," she echoed reverently.

Laying her head against his, she breathed a huge, contented sigh. But her contentment was short lived as an explosive noise close to the walls of the bower made them both jump.

"Lie still and quiet," ordered Gon in a fierce whisper. "It's a trigger-happy farmer guarding his field. The poor fool doesn't know how much he needs The Art. If he fires that thing again, one of us could get hurt."

"He shouldn't even be carrying it," whispered Gonea indignantly. "If he hurts you, he harms The Art."

"Don't worry about it. We'll deal with that when the time comes."

Gon set to work with an assortment of tools: knives, shears and clippers in all sizes. But mostly he surged forward using his double rows needle-like teeth that worked furiously at the vegetation. He slid along on his belly while his back feet dug repeatedly into the ground, powering him forward. His bulbous body followed his tracks that flowed in arcs, swirls and arcane symbols.

Sitting back on his haunches, Gon eventually surveyed his handiwork. Solemnly, he announced: "Gonea, I need your mind waves. I can't work properly with an interfering farmer on site."

Screwing up her eyes in concentration, Gonea directed her thoughts at the farmer. Gon did likewise, his eyes similarly creased.

In a trancelike state, the farmer slowly walked the paths that Gon had cut into the crop. Finding himself in the center of the design, the farmer raised his gun. Pointing it at his head, he fired and fell like a piece of Jade's igneous rock. His lifeless body disappeared into the stalks, bleeding profusely and feeding the soil with its bright blood.

Controlling his irritation with some difficulty, Gon said: "We could have managed without all that."

The critical moment was approaching and the Gogon couple concealed their nervousness in childish humor, giggling and prodding each other. They were about to carry out an act of love and fertility that would generate new life in the surrounding fields and in their home bower. Gon gave Gonea a reassuring pat on her broad rump with its soft, gray fur. She braced herself as, once more, his needle teeth were revealed. In one sharp movement, they nipped off her tail, close to the base of her spine. She gasped, but didn't cry out.

Grasping Gonea's tasseled tail Gon deftly swept it across the intricate patterns in the stubble, erasing the framer's footprints so that the stalks all lay in one direction, bringing fresh life to the field. You may call it sorcery, but Gon was perfecting the art, the way our ancestors have done for many generations.

Watching him in complete awe, Gonea mused: "Perhaps there are members of our race in other galaxies, making patterns like this in fields on other planets."

"You always did have a powerful imagination," Gon chuckled.