5 Minute Reads | Anthology

The Word Farmer by VictorSerranoWriting

"They say there's a drought acomin'," remarked the visitor.

The word farmer spat. "There's always a drought," he said, sprinkling a few words from his weathered hands into the grooved line of fresh sentences. He didn't have the time to stop and chat with the visitor.

The visitor shook his head. "Not like this one. Ain't much of a demand these days. For words, I mean. Not like there used to be. It's all videos now, they say."

The word farmer raked in the seeds and proceeded to another groove of sentences. "It's all the same to me, one way or the other. This is the life I lead. Too damn old to be growing videos." He paused to wipe his brow. "Wouldn't know where to start."

Row upon row of sentences stretched into the distance, some already close to full-grown and pruned by a few hired hands. He smiled and raised a hand at one of the editors who was trimming a dangling participle, and she nodded back. Bundled up into paragraphs they could make mighty fine chapters. Mighty fine.

"Shit, Writer, ain't too hard to get started. Phone's about all you need. Webcam, mic, maybe. Props I guess."

Writer frowned to see his bag of word seed had run dry. "Got all I need right here," he muttered, rustling through his patchwork jacket. "Ahah!" he proclaimed, pulling out a battered thesaurus, and taking a swig. He paused and looked at his visitor. "Want some?"

The visitor shrugged, and took a sip. "Vociferously," he said, wiping his mouth, and then burped. "Gah, it burns."

Writer shrugged. "You get used to it." He had a few ideas forming already and found his word bag was swelling. He sprinkled more word seed into the next sentence groove.

The visitor frowned down from his perch on the wooden fence. "You reckon those are good? Not a lot of inner monologue there."

"Yeah, I reckon those are good. Good enough, leastways." Writer paused to spit and took another swig from his thesaurus. "You never really know until the whole damn crop is raised. Raised and taken to market. Even then..." he shrugged. "Weather, blight. Might get robbed by publishers. You never really know."

"Videos, Writer," the visitor insisted. "Or like... webcomics, maybe? Shear them up nice and tight and you can make a good living. Thought about raising some myself a time or two."

"Reckon it's a lot harder than that. Most things look a good deal easier when you're on the outside lookin' in."

"Well, alright then. Alright. If you say so." The visitor sniffed. "Seems a hard life, though. Is all I'm saying."

Writer shrugged, sprinkling word seed into another sentence groove. He felt his muse acallin' him and he wasn't about to slow down. "It's an honest living, growing your own books. Might be I should have learned codin' like my Pappy, or accountin'. But to be out here, in a land of your own making? There's life here, dammit. Life. However far you look."

He paused and took a good long breath. "This is all mine, you know," he said, indicating the acres that bounded his farm. "That part I'm leaving fallow. Letting the words sink in the rich soil, then I'll come back later and give them a good pruning. The rest of these will be bundled up into chapters, loaded up into a book and I'll take it to market." He shrugged. "We'll see how that goes."
The visitor burped. "Ya ever heard of Twitch? They say there's gold in them hills if you know your business. Friend of mine found a stream, she says there's gold flakes—"

Writer leaned in with a sudden gleaming smile. "You know, I'm saving a seed crop for a sequel. Don't tell anyone. Oh, and in the garden just yonder? I got some weird stuff growing there. Might shrivel up and die in the heat, might grow into something fine." He shrugged. "You never really know."

"Huh," the visitor said, cracking his knuckles. "Well, suit yourself. Just let me know when you need them covers designed." He scratched the knob on his neck. "Got me a few new clients that need some logos. You know how them city slickers are."

Writer had finished a sentence groove and was stomping a period in to end it. "I ain't keeping you."

The word farmer didn't pay much heed to the visitor as he left. Instead, Writer puzzled at a strange root in his acre. Weren't quite a Western and it sure as shit weren't Fantasy or Sci Fi. He kicked it a few times and gave it a long squint. It had consonants sure enough, and a good bit of vowels besides, and 'side from a bit of a drawl it was grammatical.
Strange, though.

Writer's hand went down, grasping the root. It would be the work of a moment to just tear it all out. Like it never had been planted. Waste of time, maybe. But he released it, and stood staring at the seeds.
No. Might as well just see how it goes. That was the life of a word farmer after all.

A few babbling voices distracted the word farmer, and he turned to see little Proofy Reed and Bertha Reed running through the fields, rumpling the pages with their feet.

"Proofy Reed, see if you can round up any stray commas," the word farmer said. Bertha came close, munching on a compound sentence, breaking it off and tossing the introductory phrase to the ground.

"Need help, Pa?"

Writer ruffled the girl's head. "Bertha, can you check on the pacing?"

The word farmer was relieved to see Bertha nod. She had always been a dutiful daughter. Once, years ago, she had even...

"Pa! You're telling and not showing again!"

Writer knelt down, feeling a sudden lump in his throat. The girl was growing up so fast.

"Well. Get on, now. Those pacing issues won't resolve themselves," Writer said gruffly, and crouched silently as Bert wandered off past the phrases, sub-plots, and into the dense sentence structures of the distant chapters. Writer rose slowly, and turned to face his wife as she approached.

"What's gotten into you, Writer? It ain't like you to use adverbs," she said softly.

Writer smiled rueful... Writer was rueful in the way that he smiled.
"I'm sorry, dear. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," she said, though her stern face soon vanished as she gave the word farmer's cheek a kiss. Her hand caressed Writer's jaw as she whispered in his ear, "You need to add a romantic element."

She winked and walked away and Writer found himself watching her as she moved away. Damn her, but she was right. The word farmer watched her until she passed by the wall of an outbuilding. It was terraced on the east where the sun hit it just right, growing a nice patch of sunflowers, and to the south were some decorative ornaments. The north wall was cold, though it had two windows, and the fourth? Well, I've been told not to tell you about the fourth wall, and anyway vines are crawling all over it, and part of the corner is crumbling and broken.

The word farmer looked up at the sky, squinting into the sunlight. Looked like it was just about high noon. Yeah, 1200 would be a good stopping point.