we grow the crops. we farm the crops. we seell the crops. we plant the crops.
it’s monononous but we do it.
well, my father does most of it. I just help
I guess.
My father would probably tell you im not much of a help but im there with him everyday at 4am in the cow manuer and bugs.
“How’s this year’s crop looking, boy?” asked his great grandfather. A lump stuck in Kevin’s throat as he tried to look the old man in the eyes. Those eyes were once so sharp they could pick out a damaged stalk half a mile away. Now the old man’s sight and memory was as good as the wilting crop Kevin had inherited. “Its looking great,” he replied with false enthusiasm.
farmers are the people who own a large amount of land and grow all sorts of things like : corn,tomatoes,squash. ect. most farmers sell the crops for a large sum of money but others choose to keep it to feed their family’s healthy organic foods.
Jennifer England
I have seen many a farmer do their job. It is a hard job with many different facets to think about. I owe my life to them like I do the Universe.
it glistens-
do you hear it?
tap, tap, tap
as if the life is pulsing
inside
cradled inside the seed
up- up-
calloused hands raise it
handling life,
oh farmers
M
the seed i’ve recieved i will sow
a farmer’s work is one to not be underestimated
there’s more to it than just putting seeds to the ground
Farmers have no wives. Only cows, sheep, maize crops – gloriously straight lines intersected blowing in the breeze. They also have scarecrows, which eerily watch them while they work, play and sleep.
“Let’s be farmers after this,” my friend, Johnny, says.
I stare at him, baffled and surprised by his sudden confession. Unable to resist, I ask him why.
“Because it seems like a quiet and peaceful life.” He smiles at the thought of the sun beaming on his face and the smell of fresh grass. I nod in agreement. Anything calm and relaxing would be better than the situation they were currently in. The walls shake as a great impact slams against it. Gunfire and yelling could be heard, even if it was muffled by the walls. Unaffected, the two continue their conversation.
“But really, a farmer of all things?” I asked, intrigued.
He gives a short chuckle and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Cows and plants don’t seem very exciting do they?” Yet he doesn’t wait for my reply and continues to speak. “Well, I’ll be the one who decides my paycheck and probably have a nice wife and a happy family.”
“That does sound nice.”
“Right? So we should definitely have a farm next to each other or something. That’d be cool. Of course I’d have the nicer house and the prettier wife, heh.” He grins in triumph, thinking of the future that we will never have. The puddle of his blood steady spreads as the seconds tick by. The severity of his wounds and the fact that he will most likely die in this cold, empty storage room is left unsaid.
“And we’ll have fights all the time because you keep trespassing into my land,” I retort, ignoring the waver in my voice.
His breath hitches as he laughs. “Yeah, and I’ll be the one whose dog always scares the chickens to death.”
We speak for a while longer, until his voice weakens and slowly dies off. Only my breath can be heard throughout the room, but I continue to speak about the life he will never live.
—
The breeze brushes against my cheek as the sunlight shines through the trees. I sit by a large rock silently, while enjoying the tranquility. The voices of my children can be heard as they play in the field. A dog’s bark echoes from the coop, along with the scolding voice of my lovely wife. I smile to myself and remember my dear friend’s words. You were right, Johnny, being a farmer isn’t so bad.
His voice is rough, like the hands that used to be soft and uncalloused, more used to books and hours in libraries, than manual labour.
She reaches out to grasp them, and savours the feeling of them, roughened on his palms, and where his thumb joins his index finger, from much time spent at the plow, making furrows in the earth.
The work, hard as it was, seemed oddly to suit him.
Basically everybody knew it was coming. The inevitable invasion. They were coming hard and fast. The farmers… were here. They were pouring from the sky, climbing through the drains, and driving through houses on their John Deer tractors. Nobody would survive this.
Anation
They cultivate the earth, impregnating them with the seeds that will grow into the produce that feed the population. Day in, day out. Toiling beneath the beating sun that weather-wears their skin like hide. Without them, we don’t live, we don’t exist. Partake and be thankful.
Sometimes, when I look upon the wholeness of the city, I find myself wondering how different would I be if I lived by the country. If I came from a humble family of farmers, if I knew how to cease from nature itself and grab the life of it with my bare hands. I can’t think how that would affect me… How that would have shappen my personality today. It’s only a matter of a parallel universe, after all.
My uncle was a farmer. He used to bring sheep out and drop them in the molasses pits. I would watch them gurgle as they died. I will never forget their sugary screams. I often wanted to jump in with them. To feel the thick syrup creep into my throat and choke me. I wanted to be there, alone, drowned in the dark. But for some reason I never did. I just watched and imagined how it would feel. And I woke in cold sweats in the night with those keyhole shaped pupils staring down at me from my nightmares.
Sofie
Okay, farmers as my first word is not pressure at all. Kidding. What comes to mind is the natural vivid bright lifestyle that you get to live on the field. Which is funny because some of the people who live by the country wish they lived in town. We always want what we don’t have after all.
bleaching brown fields until they’re green with anything but envy. Cows and pigs and horses, we always wanted them. Wheat fields and tomatoes grasped by hands of you
Karen
Corn. Corn as far as the eye could see. A faint breeze scented with grain whistled past the man’s face and flew down the road towards another journey.
The farmers were tired, they just finished a long day of work in the fields and were in the process of cleaning everything up. John’s wife was waiting for him, she cooked a hearty meal for the family and kids and even took the time to create some blueberry pie, everyone’s favorite. Except for Leon… He hated.
Until automation took over and there were no farmers left. We became slaves to our robot overlords for food, begging for more every time, but they denied us. The bastards.
Farmers are hardworking folk. I mean, everyone needs farmers. Someone’s gotta grow the food, right? Raise the animals? etc.
Until the robots took over. Then no one had anything to do and we all died of ennui.
Shelby
that’s what people think of Saint-Gregoire De becancourt’s inhabitants: Farmers, with dirty overalls and a swarm of uneducated children. Like a picture from 1920.
mirna
I grew up out in the middle of nowhere. I woke up before the sun rose and went to bed long after it went down. It was hard work but it was the work that I loved, taught to me by my grandfather and by my father.
Sebastian
There’s a farmer called bill. He does not know how to herd sheep. But he knows how to milk cows.
Then
I’m so lucky to get this word. I am an agricultural student. I discuss with farmers. They are superheroes. Sometimes when I did not finish my dinner, I’ll be in regret.
I like the feeling of growing things with my hands. Of seeing what the earth gives back to you after your efforts. The earth never lies, after all, and what you coax out of it is purely the result of what you’ve put into it, and what the seasons and weather for the year have added or subtracted from it.
Much more honest than city work and politicians. Much simpler too.
It’s a solitary life at times, and a peaceful one too.
“You have been charged with treason to the crown and fraternizing with the resistance led by the exiled Princess Jerdana-”
“What? We aren’t part of any resistance. We’re a farming village. We’re just…just farmers!”
“We have it on good authority that a number of persons of ill repute have passed through-”
“We’re good people, sir, who follow the good word. We help whoever we can; we don’t ask what king they serve. Most of us wouldn’t know the difference anyway,”
Farmers are the backbone of the food production industry. The problem is that farmers are doing their jobs, but educators, parents, and the gov’t are not doing theirs. Garbage cans eat better than 60% of the world’s children. What is with all of the food waste? Why do we throw away so much food! It’s disgusting and we need to learn how to change this and make it stop! We are depleting our plant and our natural resources. It’s time to change this!
These fat old men try their best, plowing away at the field. Suddenly, a hunter named Killer shoots off a tree and pounces on him. The pig squeals in protest and charges at her, trying to save his master. He’s wielding a pictch fork at the girl. The other farmer has already run inside. He trembles from behind the closed door, hoping he’s not next.
Brethea
i still love you when you’re high/ as you dry my eyes/ I am burning for you/ i want to kiss you with our eyes open/ eyes open/ our hearts only meant it x3/ lips touched once and never again
The hoe drudged through the mud of the swamp land.
“We can’t field here Josef.”
“We have to.”
The day was long for these Swampland farmers. They would continue to toil amongst the fetid rot of the languished trees and burned-out homes. All for the chance for renewal, for an unexpected bounty.
If you had asked my sixteen year old self where I’d be in ten years, I wouldn’t have described a place like this in a million years. I probably would have laughed at you if you’d told me the truth. But here I am. I married my best and only friend, and live with the only family I have ever known. We are farmers. We wake at the crack of dawn, and we struggle to make ends meet. But I can not picture myself living any other life. I wouldn’t trade this life with the only people who have ever loved me for anything. This is my life and my surprising slice of paradise.
The farmers were all rebelling. But it wasn’t a battle like Sir Mormont had seen before – it was a slaughter. Instead of the ringing clash of steel against steel, it was the sickening crack of sticks and rakes snapping as they were faced with swords. He surveyed the scene, comparing the gleaming armor of the King’s knights compared to the dusty, tattered rags that the farmers called clothing. It sickened him.
Angelica Gold
In the middle of the day, the farmers all took a short rest under the shade of an apple tree. They loved a break from the tiring sun, but all the while their skin ached for the warmth of the sweet sunlight.
He trailed off, his eyes listlessly straying from one side of the plain to the other. Everything was dry and dead. Those cultivators who remained…well, they didn’t appear human anymore. Their skin was burned to a near crisp, more baked than smooth. They continued to mindlessly till at the earth. But there was nothing growing there to warrant it.
Belinda Roddie
Farmer grow pigs. No, that’s not right. Or is it? I can’t. Farmers grow crops. Pigs aren’t crops. Bacon isn’t crops. Farmer something with pigs. Why can’t I…
Lexa
The sun beat heavily against his brow, hot and sweat inducing. Groaning, he stood and cracked his back, panting. God, it was hot out. He gazed at the lonely field, a field he had been farming for the past six hours. The scenery, while pleasant, was now boring.
we grow the crops. we farm the crops. we seell the crops. we plant the crops.
it’s monononous but we do it.
well, my father does most of it. I just help
I guess.
My father would probably tell you im not much of a help but im there with him everyday at 4am in the cow manuer and bugs.
“How’s this year’s crop looking, boy?” asked his great grandfather. A lump stuck in Kevin’s throat as he tried to look the old man in the eyes. Those eyes were once so sharp they could pick out a damaged stalk half a mile away. Now the old man’s sight and memory was as good as the wilting crop Kevin had inherited. “Its looking great,” he replied with false enthusiasm.
farmers are the people who own a large amount of land and grow all sorts of things like : corn,tomatoes,squash. ect. most farmers sell the crops for a large sum of money but others choose to keep it to feed their family’s healthy organic foods.
I have seen many a farmer do their job. It is a hard job with many different facets to think about. I owe my life to them like I do the Universe.
it glistens-
do you hear it?
tap, tap, tap
as if the life is pulsing
inside
cradled inside the seed
up- up-
calloused hands raise it
handling life,
oh farmers
the seed i’ve recieved i will sow
a farmer’s work is one to not be underestimated
there’s more to it than just putting seeds to the ground
Land reapers. Feeders of the soulless.
they were farmers, yes, but their harvest was not one typical of an ordinary farm.
where others harvested rice, they harvested teeth, from heads both dead and living.
where others harvested fruit, they harvested flesh, bloody and dripping.
where others harvested legumes, they harvested fingers, carrying them by the bucketful.
no, their harvest was not your average harvest.
Farmers have no wives. Only cows, sheep, maize crops – gloriously straight lines intersected blowing in the breeze. They also have scarecrows, which eerily watch them while they work, play and sleep.
“Let’s be farmers after this,” my friend, Johnny, says.
I stare at him, baffled and surprised by his sudden confession. Unable to resist, I ask him why.
“Because it seems like a quiet and peaceful life.” He smiles at the thought of the sun beaming on his face and the smell of fresh grass. I nod in agreement. Anything calm and relaxing would be better than the situation they were currently in. The walls shake as a great impact slams against it. Gunfire and yelling could be heard, even if it was muffled by the walls. Unaffected, the two continue their conversation.
“But really, a farmer of all things?” I asked, intrigued.
He gives a short chuckle and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Cows and plants don’t seem very exciting do they?” Yet he doesn’t wait for my reply and continues to speak. “Well, I’ll be the one who decides my paycheck and probably have a nice wife and a happy family.”
“That does sound nice.”
“Right? So we should definitely have a farm next to each other or something. That’d be cool. Of course I’d have the nicer house and the prettier wife, heh.” He grins in triumph, thinking of the future that we will never have. The puddle of his blood steady spreads as the seconds tick by. The severity of his wounds and the fact that he will most likely die in this cold, empty storage room is left unsaid.
“And we’ll have fights all the time because you keep trespassing into my land,” I retort, ignoring the waver in my voice.
His breath hitches as he laughs. “Yeah, and I’ll be the one whose dog always scares the chickens to death.”
We speak for a while longer, until his voice weakens and slowly dies off. Only my breath can be heard throughout the room, but I continue to speak about the life he will never live.
—
The breeze brushes against my cheek as the sunlight shines through the trees. I sit by a large rock silently, while enjoying the tranquility. The voices of my children can be heard as they play in the field. A dog’s bark echoes from the coop, along with the scolding voice of my lovely wife. I smile to myself and remember my dear friend’s words. You were right, Johnny, being a farmer isn’t so bad.
get in
“I thought I’d never see you again”
His voice is rough, like the hands that used to be soft and uncalloused, more used to books and hours in libraries, than manual labour.
She reaches out to grasp them, and savours the feeling of them, roughened on his palms, and where his thumb joins his index finger, from much time spent at the plow, making furrows in the earth.
The work, hard as it was, seemed oddly to suit him.
Basically everybody knew it was coming. The inevitable invasion. They were coming hard and fast. The farmers… were here. They were pouring from the sky, climbing through the drains, and driving through houses on their John Deer tractors. Nobody would survive this.
They cultivate the earth, impregnating them with the seeds that will grow into the produce that feed the population. Day in, day out. Toiling beneath the beating sun that weather-wears their skin like hide. Without them, we don’t live, we don’t exist. Partake and be thankful.
Sometimes, when I look upon the wholeness of the city, I find myself wondering how different would I be if I lived by the country. If I came from a humble family of farmers, if I knew how to cease from nature itself and grab the life of it with my bare hands. I can’t think how that would affect me… How that would have shappen my personality today. It’s only a matter of a parallel universe, after all.
My uncle was a farmer. He used to bring sheep out and drop them in the molasses pits. I would watch them gurgle as they died. I will never forget their sugary screams. I often wanted to jump in with them. To feel the thick syrup creep into my throat and choke me. I wanted to be there, alone, drowned in the dark. But for some reason I never did. I just watched and imagined how it would feel. And I woke in cold sweats in the night with those keyhole shaped pupils staring down at me from my nightmares.
Okay, farmers as my first word is not pressure at all. Kidding. What comes to mind is the natural vivid bright lifestyle that you get to live on the field. Which is funny because some of the people who live by the country wish they lived in town. We always want what we don’t have after all.
bleaching brown fields until they’re green with anything but envy. Cows and pigs and horses, we always wanted them. Wheat fields and tomatoes grasped by hands of you
Corn. Corn as far as the eye could see. A faint breeze scented with grain whistled past the man’s face and flew down the road towards another journey.
The farmers were tired, they just finished a long day of work in the fields and were in the process of cleaning everything up. John’s wife was waiting for him, she cooked a hearty meal for the family and kids and even took the time to create some blueberry pie, everyone’s favorite. Except for Leon… He hated.
Farming. Classical profession. Simple folk, simple job, right?
Until automation took over and there were no farmers left. We became slaves to our robot overlords for food, begging for more every time, but they denied us. The bastards.
Farmers are hardworking folk. I mean, everyone needs farmers. Someone’s gotta grow the food, right? Raise the animals? etc.
Until the robots took over. Then no one had anything to do and we all died of ennui.
that’s what people think of Saint-Gregoire De becancourt’s inhabitants: Farmers, with dirty overalls and a swarm of uneducated children. Like a picture from 1920.
I grew up out in the middle of nowhere. I woke up before the sun rose and went to bed long after it went down. It was hard work but it was the work that I loved, taught to me by my grandfather and by my father.
There’s a farmer called bill. He does not know how to herd sheep. But he knows how to milk cows.
I’m so lucky to get this word. I am an agricultural student. I discuss with farmers. They are superheroes. Sometimes when I did not finish my dinner, I’ll be in regret.
I like the feeling of growing things with my hands. Of seeing what the earth gives back to you after your efforts. The earth never lies, after all, and what you coax out of it is purely the result of what you’ve put into it, and what the seasons and weather for the year have added or subtracted from it.
Much more honest than city work and politicians. Much simpler too.
It’s a solitary life at times, and a peaceful one too.
“You have been charged with treason to the crown and fraternizing with the resistance led by the exiled Princess Jerdana-”
“What? We aren’t part of any resistance. We’re a farming village. We’re just…just farmers!”
“We have it on good authority that a number of persons of ill repute have passed through-”
“We’re good people, sir, who follow the good word. We help whoever we can; we don’t ask what king they serve. Most of us wouldn’t know the difference anyway,”
Farmers are the backbone of the food production industry. The problem is that farmers are doing their jobs, but educators, parents, and the gov’t are not doing theirs. Garbage cans eat better than 60% of the world’s children. What is with all of the food waste? Why do we throw away so much food! It’s disgusting and we need to learn how to change this and make it stop! We are depleting our plant and our natural resources. It’s time to change this!
These fat old men try their best, plowing away at the field. Suddenly, a hunter named Killer shoots off a tree and pounces on him. The pig squeals in protest and charges at her, trying to save his master. He’s wielding a pictch fork at the girl. The other farmer has already run inside. He trembles from behind the closed door, hoping he’s not next.
i still love you when you’re high/ as you dry my eyes/ I am burning for you/ i want to kiss you with our eyes open/ eyes open/ our hearts only meant it x3/ lips touched once and never again
The hoe drudged through the mud of the swamp land.
“We can’t field here Josef.”
“We have to.”
The day was long for these Swampland farmers. They would continue to toil amongst the fetid rot of the languished trees and burned-out homes. All for the chance for renewal, for an unexpected bounty.
If you had asked my sixteen year old self where I’d be in ten years, I wouldn’t have described a place like this in a million years. I probably would have laughed at you if you’d told me the truth. But here I am. I married my best and only friend, and live with the only family I have ever known. We are farmers. We wake at the crack of dawn, and we struggle to make ends meet. But I can not picture myself living any other life. I wouldn’t trade this life with the only people who have ever loved me for anything. This is my life and my surprising slice of paradise.
i don’t have anything to say
The farmers were all rebelling. But it wasn’t a battle like Sir Mormont had seen before – it was a slaughter. Instead of the ringing clash of steel against steel, it was the sickening crack of sticks and rakes snapping as they were faced with swords. He surveyed the scene, comparing the gleaming armor of the King’s knights compared to the dusty, tattered rags that the farmers called clothing. It sickened him.
In the middle of the day, the farmers all took a short rest under the shade of an apple tree. They loved a break from the tiring sun, but all the while their skin ached for the warmth of the sweet sunlight.
Franchise.
“The farmers,” whispered Orlov. “They’re…”
He trailed off, his eyes listlessly straying from one side of the plain to the other. Everything was dry and dead. Those cultivators who remained…well, they didn’t appear human anymore. Their skin was burned to a near crisp, more baked than smooth. They continued to mindlessly till at the earth. But there was nothing growing there to warrant it.
Farmer grow pigs. No, that’s not right. Or is it? I can’t. Farmers grow crops. Pigs aren’t crops. Bacon isn’t crops. Farmer something with pigs. Why can’t I…
The sun beat heavily against his brow, hot and sweat inducing. Groaning, he stood and cracked his back, panting. God, it was hot out. He gazed at the lonely field, a field he had been farming for the past six hours. The scenery, while pleasant, was now boring.