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rising sun. The orange morning sun drew elongated shadows trailing
the foot high stubs sprouting out of the ploughed ground. Walking
past his failed crop, he eventually reached the water reservoir on the
outskirts of his property. There had once been a large lake used to
irrigate the farm, with a network of underground pipes feeding out
into the fields. ‘The great lake,’ Nick scoffed to himself, staring
down at the thin layer of sludge sitting in the bottom of the vacuous
ditch. The sluggish water reflected pale mauve, the only product
from a sky as barren of clouds as his farm of a healthy harvest.
As Nick turned back from the dried up reservoir to return home,
a gentle breeze began to stir the stagnant air. He could hear the
distant rattle of sunburnt leaves on the boarder of the property. His
back to the nearly-risen sun, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed
over. He focused his eyes on the sky, desperately searching for a
cloud or any other promise of rain. Nothing but the vastness of a
godless sky. A hopeless sky.
Trudging up the step to his home and kicking off his boots, Nick
resettled himself on the lounge room sofa. His strong hands resting
on either leg, his eyes resting on the stack of paperwork still sitting
on the coffee table.
‘BRITON REAL ESTATE’
boldly written on the
header. Reluctantly, he took hold of the documents, studying the
text and fine print. Restlessly, he stood up and walked out onto the
veranda, closing the creaking screen door behind him. Placing his
hand on the warm wooden rail, he closed his eyes towards the
horizon. The corrugated iron roof protecting him from the baking
sun which was now directly above him. In his mind he could see the
wheat fields before him growing, sprouting out of the freshly
ploughed land, each golden blade swaying softly in unison to the
gentle breeze. He could remember himself as a child, playing in the
same field. Hours were spent hiding in the tall grass, moving small
mounds of soil with plastic toy trucks. The rich soil would entrench
itself in the beds of his nails as he would determinedly scour the
ground for life. Only the rich scent of his mother’s cooking could
lure him from his fields.
Nick’s eyes gradually opened to see what was really before him.
Steady breaths of wind began circulating around the fields, spreading
a dusty mist. The dried twigs sticking abruptly out of the ground did
not sway gracefully, chasing the breeze in a ripple effect. No, they
stood pathetically like burnt stumps, jutting out of the ground after
Harvest
11