ruzz311 · April 4, 2025 20:49
diff --git a/turnip-farmer.txt b/turnip-farmer.txt
 "In all my days as a turnip farmer I have not yet experienced the love of a white radish," thought the farmer as he sighed and walked up the dusty, worn trail towards the barn. The paint, which once was vibrant red had dulled to a rusty hue where the paint had not yet freed itself from the siding, leaving chunks of exposed rough wood that he ran his hands along. The man braced his back against the worn but sturdy structure and slowly sank until his knees could take no more and he crumpled against the barn. The sun beat warm against the old man's skin which had thinned as the years raced by him. And in that moment he drifted off to sleep.

 ...

 How long had he been out? One hour? Two? It was not yet dusk but the cicadas had begun to roar.

 His eyes fluttered half-open, though only one seemed willing to do the work. There was a sourness in the back of his throat, metallic and dry, and for a moment he thought perhaps he had bitten his tongue in his sleep. He pressed a hand to his chest and let it rest there. Just a moment longer, he told himself. Just until the pressure eased. It didn’t.

 He had dreamed of his father again, though the face was smudged and indistinct. They had been in the field, not the real one, but one built from memory—the rows straight, the soil dark and forgiving. He couldn’t remember what was said, only the feeling of being scolded without words. When he woke, that feeling lingered, like dust caught in the folds of his shirt.

 His breath came in hiccups now, small things like a pump struggling to prime. He pushed himself up, one palm slipping in the dry straw at the base of the barn. The world took a moment to right itself. Shadows bled at the corners of his vision and retreated as slowly as they had come.

 He stood there for a long time, listening—not to anything in particular, just listening, as if the land might say something if he were quiet enough. The fields before him were spotted with weeds he hadn’t noticed last season. He hadn’t pulled them. Hadn’t had the strength.

 Another black moth buzzed past, frantic in its joyless way. The barn door groaned in the wind behind him, and for a second, he thought he saw something in its sway—a shape, a person, maybe just the ghost of a memory. But there was nothing. Just dust.

 Later, as the light began to fall behind the hills, he found himself sitting in the dirt again, one leg curled under him, the other stretched and twitching with the last of his energy. He watched a beetle crawl over his boot. “You’re going somewhere,” he muttered. “Don’t know where, but you’ve got a mind to do it.”

 His voice sounded strange to him—thin, like a reed bent in the wind. His chest tightened again. He blinked hard and tasted the air. There was no scent. The soil didn’t smell like anything anymore.

 He thought of the turnips, still in the ground. Some would go soft before he could get to them. Others, the deer would have. He didn’t much mind. Let them eat.

 And then, with a kind of slow and trembling grace, he tipped sideways onto the dry earth, his cheek pressing into it like he was listening for something underneath. It felt cooler than he remembered.

 The cicadas' roar had became deafening.
	"In all my days as a turnip farmer I have not yet experienced the love of a white radish," thought the farmer as he sighed and walked up the dusty, worn trail towards the barn. The paint, which once was vibrant red had dulled to a rusty hue where the paint had not yet freed itself from the siding, leaving chunks of exposed rough wood that he ran his hands along. The man braced his back against the worn but sturdy structure and slowly sank until his knees could take no more and he crumpled against the barn. The sun beat warm against the old man's skin which had thinned as the years raced by him. And in that moment he drifted off to sleep.

	...

	How long had he been out? One hour? Two? It was not yet dusk but the cicadas had begun to roar.

	His eyes fluttered half-open, though only one seemed willing to do the work. There was a sourness in the back of his throat, metallic and dry, and for a moment he thought perhaps he had bitten his tongue in his sleep. He pressed a hand to his chest and let it rest there. Just a moment longer, he told himself. Just until the pressure eased. It didn’t.

	He had dreamed of his father again, though the face was smudged and indistinct. They had been in the field, not the real one, but one built from memory—the rows straight, the soil dark and forgiving. He couldn’t remember what was said, only the feeling of being scolded without words. When he woke, that feeling lingered, like dust caught in the folds of his shirt.

	His breath came in hiccups now, small things like a pump struggling to prime. He pushed himself up, one palm slipping in the dry straw at the base of the barn. The world took a moment to right itself. Shadows bled at the corners of his vision and retreated as slowly as they had come.

	He stood there for a long time, listening—not to anything in particular, just listening, as if the land might say something if he were quiet enough. The fields before him were spotted with weeds he hadn’t noticed last season. He hadn’t pulled them. Hadn’t had the strength.

	Another black moth buzzed past, frantic in its joyless way. The barn door groaned in the wind behind him, and for a second, he thought he saw something in its sway—a shape, a person, maybe just the ghost of a memory. But there was nothing. Just dust.

	Later, as the light began to fall behind the hills, he found himself sitting in the dirt again, one leg curled under him, the other stretched and twitching with the last of his energy. He watched a beetle crawl over his boot. “You’re going somewhere,” he muttered. “Don’t know where, but you’ve got a mind to do it.”

	His voice sounded strange to him—thin, like a reed bent in the wind. His chest tightened again. He blinked hard and tasted the air. There was no scent. The soil didn’t smell like anything anymore.

	He thought of the turnips, still in the ground. Some would go soft before he could get to them. Others, the deer would have. He didn’t much mind. Let them eat.

	And then, with a kind of slow and trembling grace, he tipped sideways onto the dry earth, his cheek pressing into it like he was listening for something underneath. It felt cooler than he remembered.

	The cicadas' roar had became deafening.