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he was in his early twenties, life told him to move on, but he was unwilling, convinced that where he had planted his seeds, they would grow. he denied every wind that swept them away; every rainfall that drowned them out. he prayed that the sun would shine, but it never did, and he felt betrayed by the passing of time. he thought little about the original health of the seeds he had sewn, which was the biggest fallowing of his harvest. for several seasons, he dug his hoe in deep and turned the dirt over and over, adding what manure he had and hoping for the best, but still naught. then, he noticed that the neighboring farm was sprouting with solid stalks. the sun had been kind on the other side of the fence, and he could not for the life of him understand why. he convinced himself that his neighbor stole his seedlings for himself and left him with the weeds. surely, that must be the case. he planted, he watered, he worked his hands to the bone. and there were his barren fields, and his neighbor sipping sweet tea. he was unaware of the farmer's dedication to his land, and his lifetime spent cultivating his soil. he didn't know the farmer's preparation for the seeds he had finally sown, and so he conspired in anger, and in envy he raided his neighbor's fields under the cover of nightfall. with his sickle, he chopped the crops at their knees, bundled them up, and dragged their remains home. he spent all night replanting his hacked harvest deep into his dry and rocky soil, and when the sun rose, he stood amidst his bitter and dying garden.

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