Morning all. Let’s get this day started by just diving into the morning prompt and see what fifteen minutes of writing brings. Remember let your editor brain have the fifteen minutes off. This is just writing time. Let what spills out of your mind just be what spills out of your mind. Later you can work with it. For now, fifteen minutes on the timer and don’t stop writing.
I kind of like this actually. Also I was researching some Tudor era history for a fantasy scene and I think some of it stuck in my brain.
Tuesday, October 28th: The string dangled uselessly.
The string dangled uselessly. He sighed heavily and stopped where he was. If the broadcaster could be fixed in a few moments he would fix it and go on. If it couldn’t he would have to sow the seeds by hand. In the distance thunder rumbled. He was running out of time. The seeds needed to be in the ground before winter fully arrived if they were going to have a chance of any crop come spring. He was delayed due to heavy rains earlier in the month.
Now he was racing the cold.
He looked inside the unit and was relieved it was just the string that snapped. He used his belt knife to slice it off and took an extra bit of string from his pocket. He long since got in the habit of always keeping a bit of string on him. It seemed strange and others often laughed, but it came in handy more times than he could count. He laced it through the eyeholes and to his relief the broadcasting mechanism worked again. He stood, hooked the strap of it over his shoulder settling it in place on his stomach and took another glance at the sky. The clouds were rolling in fast.
He began his march across the fields. With each step he tugged on the handle of the broadcaster and the interior mechanism whirred as it sprayed out the seeds for next year’s crop. While he could broadcast by hand, timing his steps, they were always less even than the mechanized broadcaster. More regular spacing meant a better chance more seeds would have the space to sprout with a more even distribution. More seeds sprouting meant the possibility of a better harvest.
A better harvest beat back the specter of starvation.
It was an ongoing battle and one he and the others in the village waged year after year. Tobias timed his steps, the traditional son playing in his head and keeping his pacing even despite his growing concerns over the approaching storm.
When he reached one end of the field, he turned and walked back the way he came, Back and forth he walked. By the time he turned to walk the last row he felt the droplets of rain. Tobias ignored them eager to finish. He kept going. Bu the time he reached the end of the row, the field sown, the rain was hard and heavy. He was soaked to the bone, all his wool layers completely sodden. They felt heavy as he trudged back to the barn.
In the barn he poured the left-over seeds into the storage bin. There weren’t as many as he expected. It was with some satisfaction that he thought of the now fully sown field. He sent a prayer skyward for hopes of a good harvest. He used a cloth to dry off the broadcaster so the wood would not warp and then left it in the barn, stepping out into the rain again to head back to the house.
The rain did not seem like it would be lessening any time soon so he knew waiting would serve no purpose except to extend his time in the sodden garments.
He reached the house and rung out his outer garments under the covered portico outside the house as best as he could before opening the door and stepping inside. The warmth hit him like a furnace blast and as it touched him he realized just how cold he had become. There had been little sun during the day and cool winds even before the rain began falling. He dipped into his room, stripped off his garments, toweled off his chilled skin and put on fresh dry clothing. He then gathered up the wet garments and went down to the fire. It was laid in the center of the room with the smoke drifting upward through the hole in the center of the roof.
Ten til Midnight 