This blog is for all who desire to create with words and images.
You are encouraged to participate in any way that is meaningful to you.

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All prompts beneath the photos are only suggestions.
You are free to use the photo to be inspired to write any way you desire.
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you may offer your writing to any prompt anytime.
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Write and you are a writer.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Working Farm


Photo by Simply Heather
Visit her Blog - http://simplyheathersblog.blogspot.com/
And her Photo Blog - http://simplyjoyfulphotos.blogspot.com/
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Suggested prompt...
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Include a farm in your writing today.


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Hard work is how I learned to live my life. This is why, when I was sent to the newly built school a few miles away from the old one I had been used to, I was surprised by the other kids my age.

I couldn't understand them. I felt so outcast and yearned to be like them. Yet something else inside me knew I really didn't want that. My flannel button up shirt and worn jeans looked so faded and old next to their sleek appearances. I didn't know the names of the clothing they wore, but I knew everything had a distinct name.

If I wore something like that, it would probably only be for church. Mother would spank me silly if I wore something like that on an ordinary day. It would surely be ruined by my daily chores, and I could hear her saying, "No one should be so wasteful."

Occasionally someone would talk to me. It would seem friendly at first, but soon they would laugh at something I said that hadn't meant to be funny. Or if not, they would look at me shocked or surprised and then withdraw awkwardly.

For instance, that girl with the sleek blond curls and ruffled shirt came up and smiled at me once. She made a comment about how she wished school could be at a later time because she hated to wake up so early on weekdays. She'd gone on complaining and then stated that she couldn't wait for the weekend. As she looked at me expectantly, waiting for my reply, I hadn't known what to say.

Finally, I told her I was used to waking up much earlier, that school started a few hours after I'd usually been up at least a couple hours. I didn't realize anyone slept in so late! My mother would have walloped me for being lazy and missing breakfast.

The girl only looked at me oddly and walked away to talk to her regular friends. It felt so strange to be there among these people who had such smooth skin on their hands- hands that appeared to never have touched the ground- never been in a wrestling match with cow dogs or even got grass stains from falling.

I longed for home that day. And when I came to it, I was relieved to see the blue siding on the house, the red barn with white trim, the little red well, and oh the green, green grass. I never had looked at home with such pleasure.

The familiar scent of straw and fresh-mowed lawn was in the air and I immediately wanted to get my hands dirty. No problem at all doing that- it was time to feed the horses. As I went about my chores I though about school. I wouldn't ever make a friend at that new school. Why did our farm have to be built just inside the new district boundaries? All the other outer farms still went to my old school. The rest of the day was full and I found myself busy and able to put school out of my mind for now.

But the next morning came too soon. I woke before the sun to carry out the days duties and prepare myself for another day among the aliens to my lifestyle. Perhaps today I will find at least one person with a little dirt under their fingernails.

Dani

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3 comments:

Simply Heather said...

From the journal entry of a farmer’s wife:

I suppose that I can be thankful that he’s a farm hand and not the owner of the farm. I just can’t imagine the hours and worries that an owner might have. It just isn’t easy for me, all alone in the quiet of the night here in this house. We just brought home our first son today and this is all new to me. I feel alone and a little scared as I hear the coy-dogs howling in the back field. Jesus, be with me…be my comfort and protect us here. I love you, I trust you, I believe.

christine said...

She sang as she walked up the road to school. It was two miles there, and two miles back. Rain or shine, she sang as she walked - unless she was reading a book, or course, then she was silent.

She didn't sing for the whole two miles though. Oh no, that was impossible.

She sang for the first mile, through the streets of the small estate, up towards the fields. She sang for the next quarter mile, hopping from stone slab to stone slab between the dry stone walls of the fields - carefully avoiding those that rocked and soaked her feet with the hidden puddles beneath.

But then the singing stopped. Now she took a deep breath, released it, then took another. She looked ahead to see that the way was clear, released the breath and took the third and deepest. Then she ran, holding that breath as if it was her last.

Whew! Now she could let it out and breat again properly. Once her heart had stopped pounding she could sing again for the remainder of the journey.

Whatever had possessed them to put the path straight through the pig's yard she would never know, but it broke her song every day - it was impossible to breathe as she passed through it.

Dani said...

Hard work is how I learned to live my life. This is why, when I was sent to the newly built school a few miles away from the old one I had been used to, I was surprised by the other kids my age.

I couldn't understand them. I felt so outcast and yearned to be like them. Yet something else inside me knew I really didn't want that. My flannel button up shirt and worn jeans looked so faded and old next to their sleek appearances. I didn't know the names of the clothing they wore, but I knew everything had a distinct name.

If I wore something like that, it would probably only be for church. Mother would spank me silly if I wore something like that on an ordinary day. It would surely be ruined by my daily chores, and I could hear her saying, "No one should be so wasteful."

Occasionally someone would talk to me. It would seem friendly at first, but soon they would laugh at something I said that hadn't meant to be funny. Or if not, they would look at me shocked or surprised and then withdraw awkwardly.

For instance, that girl with the sleek blond curls and ruffled shirt came up and smiled at me once. She made a comment about how she wished school could be at a later time because she hated to wake up so early on weekdays. She'd gone on complaining and then stated that she couldn't wait for the weekend. As she looked at me expectantly, waiting for my reply, I hadn't known what to say.

Finally, I told her I was used to waking up much earlier, that school started a few hours after I'd usually been up at least a couple hours. I didn't realize anyone slept in so late! My mother would have walloped me for being lazy and missing breakfast.

The girl only looked at me oddly and walked away to talk to her regular friends. It felt so strange to be there among these people who had such smooth skin on their hands- hands that appeared to never have touched the ground- never been in a wrestling match with cow dogs or even got grass stains from falling.

I longed for home that day. And when I came to it, I was relieved to see the blue siding on the house, the red barn with white trim, the little red well, and oh the green, green grass. I never had looked at home with such pleasure.

The familiar scent of straw and fresh-mowed lawn was in the air and I immediately wanted to get my hands dirty. No problem at all doing that- it was time to feed the horses. As I went about my chores I though about school. I wouldn't ever make a friend at that new school. Why did our farm have to be built just inside the new district boundaries? All the other outer farms still went to my old school. The rest of the day was full and I found myself busy and able to put school out of my mind for now.

But the next morning came too soon. I woke before the sun to carry out the days duties and prepare myself for another day among the aliens to my lifestyle. Perhaps today I will find at least one person with a little dirt under their fingernails.