Posts Tagged ‘farming’

If you’re new to Friday Fictioneers, hop to the bottom of the page * and find out what it’s all about.  My 100-word story follows the picture and the blue link to the rest of the stories is after that.  This week’s story, although it can, I think, stand on its own, turns out to be a continuation of last week’s story, but that’s all; a continuation, not the second in a series.  Sandra’s picture just played too well into what I’d written such a short time ago and I succumbed to the urge to write it.  In face, I couldn’t yank my mind/muse away from it so I gave in gracefully.  If you want to read the previous story, you can find it here, but don’t feel you must: ” Harvest.”

Copyright Sandra Crook

Copyright Sandra Crook

With Bells On

Farm births rarely go as planned.  One of the cows had walked through the fence and naturally, they’d all dumbly followed and were now cheerfully grazing in our neighbor’s field.  Our neighbor said don’t worry, he’d take care of it just before the  midwife called to say that a truck of bales had overturned, blocking the road.  Rob’s look as he washed his hands was priceless!  We were both thankful for all the experience he had birthing animals, though.

We named her Annabelle, but she was always just Belle; Rob said for the bell that called him home that day.


While writing this, I couldn’t help thinking of one of my favorite commercials during this year’s not-so-Super Bowl.  

* Anyone who wants to write 100 words about a photo posted each week on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog is welcome to join in. Just go to her site each Wednesday to get the rules (and don’t ask why we’re “Friday” not “Wednesday” Fictioneers.) See the photo, write your story, post your link and read as many stories by other authors as you like. That’s it. It’s lots of fun but once you start, it’s almost impossible to stop. You’ve been warned.

Whether your preference is for reading or writing (or both), Friday Fictioneers offers you an opportunity to enjoy yourself.  Respond to the photo prompt in 100 words and you’re a writer.  Read my story and click on the link at the very end to find links to stories by other authors and you’re a reader and critic.  Do both and double your fun.  But beware!  Participation is highly addictive!

Copyright David Stewart

Copyright David Stewart

The Missing Link

The pain announces it’s time. I grasp the bell rope, memories welling up.

The child…
…holding warm, brown eggs
…riding on Carlo, the big farm dog
…running to dinner when Grandma rang the bell
…”driving” the tractor, Grandpa working the pedals my feet couldn’t reach

The young adult…
…Grandma and Grandpa gone
…college, travel, life
…strangers farming our land
…a “For Sale” sign

The two of us…
…loving the land
…leaving secure jobs
…moving home
…reclaiming the land

I joyfully pull the bell, letting Rob know it’s time; time for the harvest; time for the new family member.

Another week.  Daily, the unseen pull grows stronger, until the mid-week mirror lures us Narcissus-like to stare into its smooth surface for our inspiration.

No refuge.  The tentacles of creation wind  ’round us, dragging us inexorably toward the keyboard to satisfy the craving.  Sweet addiction!  Our drug of choice.

Go on; give in. Choose your word-weapon.  Wield it fearlessly.
You are a Fictioneer!



Genre:  Poetry

He lay, sweating, behind the rocks
           weighted down with the implements of death and survival
           always vigilant.

He returned (better off than many)
            sometimes cringing at loud noises
            enduring headaches and bad dreams.

He stood, sweating, by the barn
            the air freighted with the scent of summer
            swathed in silence.

He was good with his hands
            thought how he’d reclaim the land
            prayed it might make him sane again.

He observed a shadow overhead
            (only a hawk in this time and place
            dropping like a bomb towards lunch.)

He lay, sweating, in the fragrant grass
            mind mercifully blank
            sleeping, beginning.

Just a little sculpture in a field

Up early, we breakfast with the bikers, then get on our way.  The speed limit in South Dakota is 75, so the van flies along at a steady 80, eating up the miles.  South Dakota is flat but beautiful, misty this morning after last night’s rain.  There are rolls of hay everywhere and the bright stubble from the baled hay stands in sharp contrast to the sky and the deep green of the soybean fields.  The corn is suffering; the dry-land corn is truly dry and looks crinkly.  Even corn that’s been irrigated doesn’t have as many ears per stalk.  Many fields look ready for harvest but it’s much too early.  This bodes ill not only for farmers but for everyone, since corn is a part of so many products.  Many spots usually filled with water are either just cracked earth or have only a little water in them.  Fields of sunflowers give a Provencal look to some areas.  Their bright yellow faces turned toward the sun, they appear to contradict the dryness surrounding them. (more…)


Relentless sun.

……A watering ban??  What about my flowers & lawn?!!

….The AC runs constantly.  What about my electric bill?

….Pivot’s still bringing up water from the well but the crops are struggling.  What if the well runs dry?  How will we pay the mortgage, buy our food, feed our animals?  We could lose the farm.

….We trek to the well again but there are so many people, so little clean water.  The children cry from thirst, though we give them all we can.  What if the well runs dry?  What about our children?  What about us?


To read all the stories generated by this prompt, click on this link to go to the Friday Fictioneers’ site on Madison Woods’ blog:

Here’s the link to the blog and I’ll make the other one live as soon as it is:

Do visit!  You’ll be amazed at the talent and variety on display in a mere 100 (+/-) words.  And be sure to leave a comment or a “like” if you enjoy what you read.  It’s always appreciated by the writer.

The original farm

There’s something about land, something that feels not just elemental but, if you’ll pardon the unintended pun, grounded. (more…)

While I was growing up, my grandparents lived on a farm in Nebraska, about an hour from our house in Omaha.   My grandfather told my father when he was growing up, not to be a farmer because it was too hard and, for that or for some other reason, my dad became an accountant.  But we went to the farm to visit regularly and as a child, it was great.  We got all the fun of the farm without the work. (more…)