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Apollonian
The sun's amber rays are finally cutting through the morning haze, dumping more heat into the already-oppressive sauna of the midwest summer dawn. My boots squish into the film of mud from the tenth-inch rain last night -- just enough to make a mess, but not enough to keep us out of the fields. Beads of water run down my vinyl protective suit, brushed delicately by soybean leaves and tendrils reaching up to my raised forearms as my legs zwip-zwip through the rows.
I run my gloved hand through the twining plants, admiring their viridian shapes. Precise rows of inch-tall sprouts just months before have erupted into a thick rolling mass for half a mile in every direction. I run a few coiling vines between my fingertips and smile. From a mile off, there comes a barbling roar of a truck on the main road, rushing from A to B.
I pause at a small flash of white a few feet ahead in the row on my left. I step over and bend down to find a spiderweb glistening with dewdrops. I recognize it as an orb-weaver's -- the web has the distinctive thick zig-zag pattern running up and down from the center. There I find a tiny specimen clinging to its lattice of death; a tiny thing, maybe a half inch long. I look a few rows over to the side, where a scrubby grass strip runs astraddle the dirt road; then back to the spider. He won't find much food for him here. Only a few years ago I walked these same rows with some classmates and a hoe in hand, stepping through a web every ten feet it felt like.
I step back to the row to the right, leaving him be, and continue forward. In short order, I reach my destination, and climb seven feet up the ladder and into the cab. The door I shut behind me with a single solid clack before I sink into the chair. The space stinks of dirt, sweat, and rodent repellant, as always. I look out at the green-on-green, check the shfter, then turn the key one stop; shrill beep and lamp check; second stop; the diesel rumbles to life and the seat buoys to support height, bucking me with a swell of compressed air. The fans whir, air conditioner racing to replace the muggy morning atmosphere with cool and dry -- welcome relief in my already-sweat through clothes beneath the unbreathable suit.
I check the fuel level -- still half-full from last night -- and the water and chemical tank levels -- about quarter and two-thirds, each... enough until midmorning and the arranged truck. I press the hydraulic actuators, and with a faint hiss the long sprayer booms unfold like bat arms behind me. I give one last check at the GPS monitor; back at the booms now fully extended and in position, stretching ninety feet to either side, poised mere inches above the tallest soybean leaves; then don and secure my ventilator mask.
I rev the engine to 1600 RPM, engage guidance, shift to D1, and slap into forward. The machine lurches ahead and I switch the sprayer toggle. I leave the turn rows behind, entering the long, mathematically perfect lines running a half-mile ahead. Behind me, I admire the cloud of my own, settling perfectly down on the plants. Unlike the old days, not a weed, not a pest, not a blight will come to my field, protected by the power of chemistry...
My grin falters. Not spiders, either.
I run my gloved hand through the twining plants, admiring their viridian shapes. Precise rows of inch-tall sprouts just months before have erupted into a thick rolling mass for half a mile in every direction. I run a few coiling vines between my fingertips and smile. From a mile off, there comes a barbling roar of a truck on the main road, rushing from A to B.
I pause at a small flash of white a few feet ahead in the row on my left. I step over and bend down to find a spiderweb glistening with dewdrops. I recognize it as an orb-weaver's -- the web has the distinctive thick zig-zag pattern running up and down from the center. There I find a tiny specimen clinging to its lattice of death; a tiny thing, maybe a half inch long. I look a few rows over to the side, where a scrubby grass strip runs astraddle the dirt road; then back to the spider. He won't find much food for him here. Only a few years ago I walked these same rows with some classmates and a hoe in hand, stepping through a web every ten feet it felt like.
I step back to the row to the right, leaving him be, and continue forward. In short order, I reach my destination, and climb seven feet up the ladder and into the cab. The door I shut behind me with a single solid clack before I sink into the chair. The space stinks of dirt, sweat, and rodent repellant, as always. I look out at the green-on-green, check the shfter, then turn the key one stop; shrill beep and lamp check; second stop; the diesel rumbles to life and the seat buoys to support height, bucking me with a swell of compressed air. The fans whir, air conditioner racing to replace the muggy morning atmosphere with cool and dry -- welcome relief in my already-sweat through clothes beneath the unbreathable suit.
I check the fuel level -- still half-full from last night -- and the water and chemical tank levels -- about quarter and two-thirds, each... enough until midmorning and the arranged truck. I press the hydraulic actuators, and with a faint hiss the long sprayer booms unfold like bat arms behind me. I give one last check at the GPS monitor; back at the booms now fully extended and in position, stretching ninety feet to either side, poised mere inches above the tallest soybean leaves; then don and secure my ventilator mask.
I rev the engine to 1600 RPM, engage guidance, shift to D1, and slap into forward. The machine lurches ahead and I switch the sprayer toggle. I leave the turn rows behind, entering the long, mathematically perfect lines running a half-mile ahead. Behind me, I admire the cloud of my own, settling perfectly down on the plants. Unlike the old days, not a weed, not a pest, not a blight will come to my field, protected by the power of chemistry...
My grin falters. Not spiders, either.
Pics
I like the language flow and rhythm to this, and there are a few snags that could easily be edited to make this subtly better. Just for a few examples: look for places where you jam a bunch of hard breaks (as em dashes) close together, note how you have to get to the end of the second paragraph before you vary how you start your sentences, there's some repetitiveness (in a story this short, it's really easy to note the "already-oppressive" and "already-sweat," for instance).
This is another one that might actually work better if a little shorter. You spend nearly half the story going through the motions of him starting up his machinery, and it's not that important. A little of it is. The contrast of the air conditioning versus the hot weather, science, versus nature. But all the details of him starting the engine, putting it in gear, how fast the engine is going, checking the GPS... just one or two of those would be enough to convey him settling into a routine. Too much, and it starts to feel like padding, and it takes too much focus away from the important parts.
This does a great job of setting mood. I always like atmosphere pieces, and this accomplishes it well.
This is another one that might actually work better if a little shorter. You spend nearly half the story going through the motions of him starting up his machinery, and it's not that important. A little of it is. The contrast of the air conditioning versus the hot weather, science, versus nature. But all the details of him starting the engine, putting it in gear, how fast the engine is going, checking the GPS... just one or two of those would be enough to convey him settling into a routine. Too much, and it starts to feel like padding, and it takes too much focus away from the important parts.
This does a great job of setting mood. I always like atmosphere pieces, and this accomplishes it well.
I've probably more a hard time enjoying this than >>Pascoite. Since my mother lives in France's main breadbasket, west of Paris, I know quite a lot of farmers, and that piece, poetic though it is, doesn’t seem to properly capture their mood when they go working in the fields. They’re somewhat indifferent to nature, cool and efficient. What matters is how many gallons of corn they’ll crop in July, how much the pesticides cost and what equipment they shall upgrade to help improve the yields. That actually transpires somewhat in the final part of this piece, but don’t forget that those people hardly feel any attachement to either mechanic devices or plants. They are, quintessentially, means to make money.
I wish you chose to describe what an organic farmer thinks or does. I expect those people to have a more ‘touchy-feely’ approach to their cultures, show more respect toward nature, the plants, the various creatures that populate the fields, in other words more commitment to growing their crops without using what you justly describe as a chemical shield against pests. Maybe you could’ve contrasted the two approaches, the classical, profit-centric one with the ‘organic’, more respectful one.
Lastly, ‘film of mud’ struck me as an odd way to put it. I see where you’re coming from, but I'd still use ‘thin layer’ or just ‘covering’. But that’s mainly stylistic issues, so whatever floats your boat.
I wish you chose to describe what an organic farmer thinks or does. I expect those people to have a more ‘touchy-feely’ approach to their cultures, show more respect toward nature, the plants, the various creatures that populate the fields, in other words more commitment to growing their crops without using what you justly describe as a chemical shield against pests. Maybe you could’ve contrasted the two approaches, the classical, profit-centric one with the ‘organic’, more respectful one.
Lastly, ‘film of mud’ struck me as an odd way to put it. I see where you’re coming from, but I'd still use ‘thin layer’ or just ‘covering’. But that’s mainly stylistic issues, so whatever floats your boat.
This one was the first story I picked up, and it was a great intro to this Writeoff.
There are certain moments in fiction that instill a sense of reality. Reading this, it felt like the genuine experience of working on the fields, even though in reality it's not quite that. Being able to instill that in a reader unfamiliar with a given profession is a great achievement, and I commend the writer for it.
That said, the actual contents of the story just didn't pique my interest. It's a solemn little vignette, but it lacks a strong emotional arc.
Prose was good, I don't have any particular comments.
Thank you for writing!
There are certain moments in fiction that instill a sense of reality. Reading this, it felt like the genuine experience of working on the fields, even though in reality it's not quite that. Being able to instill that in a reader unfamiliar with a given profession is a great achievement, and I commend the writer for it.
That said, the actual contents of the story just didn't pique my interest. It's a solemn little vignette, but it lacks a strong emotional arc.
Prose was good, I don't have any particular comments.
Thank you for writing!