Wood farmers

A prompt story: Write about dystopia society in the middle of a desert. How would their daily life look like?


A young punk, a youth, who was searching acceptance by a local group, walked towards the center of a group of houses they were living. They were six 30 stores high buildings and created a small inner garden of nothingness. There was children’s playground, but no flowers really, just some sturdy grass. Everything echoes in this place. There were some house groups elsewhere, but in reality, nothingness. No forests, just some bushes.

Any wood that was needed around here was grown through hard labor. My grandfather was one of them, who did it there. He was eighty and he had delivered 60 deliveries of young wood, 45 which he had started from seed himself. These trees were specially created breed between what they found in tropics and what we had here as a bush. Who would have known you can change the genetics so they would grow fast like in tropics and lean and branch-less like ours? But they did – just 20 years and you got a strong stick with thick wood which was at least 3 meters tall. And those farms we had all around us. We were wood farmers through generations of work.

But if you are wood farmer’s child, this place is acceptable, but rigidly boring in summers. Most of the children were older now, nearly in age to go to university. Our this summer’s discovery was an old school bus. It had corroded away two miles southwards from the town and guys had dragged it back here, removed the windows and cleared the dirt. Now we had at least a place to sit if we didn’t want to stay inside. Summers here weren’t hot, but you still didn’t want to spend most of your time up there on the sixth floor.

The guy walked to us, when a woman pushed the window open on the sixteenth floor and shouted something in a language we didn’t understand. We often didn’t understand the languages around us, but we liked it that way – English for general talk and if you had to deal family affairs – your home language. Meant if you wanted to shout at your family, you could and still nothing was kept secret. I knew his family and knew she wanted him to go eat his dinner.

The punk tossed up his middle fingers and walked on.

“Hey! Hey! No disrespect to your mother!” oldest, Ian, jumped off the bus. “Go wash your hands and say you’re sorry!”

The punk snarled, but when he looked up, was faced with Ian’s massive jacket. He quickly rethought the insult crawling up his throat. He nodded and headed towards the house.

Ian had lost his mother six years ago. She had slipped and fell off the stairs. They kept her alive comatose for months, but she never came around before passing away. Ian couldn’t even say good bye, because they wouldn’t let him go to her. So he kept keen watch that we respected our mothers. He went as far as sitting as mediator between us and our mothers if we really got something wrong. Sometimes we talked for hours. He didn’t care. He only left, when things smoothed over.

Fathers – that was different story. He didn’t get along with his and was in waiting list for free apartment and so he couldn’t care less how we behaved with them. He would make good shrink one day, we thought, but instead he stick around and decided to continue his family trade. Because deep inside he didn’t want to disrespect his father either.

We watched the punk go and for a while everything went quiet. Soon another boy approached us from southern road. He was eight and skinny. Also he didn’t wear his coat, despite the souring chill we were experiencing. It was soon time to go back in.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: