Chapter 1: Spring 1
Chapter Text
DAY 0 (Winter 28) — Your grandfather died, not that you felt much about it. There were memories, vague and forgettable, but you hadn’t the faintest idea why your grandfather would leave his farm in your hands rather than your mother’s. You barely visited the man enough to justify a penny (nothing beyond the typical childhood visits expected of a grandchild) and you’ve left Zuzu City an amount of times you could probably count in less than your two hands.
Of course, you feel bad if you think about it too hard. Him, alone probably in some big farm, dying alone… Yeah, okay, that made you feel a bit teary.
You’re not a monster. You loved him, but you didn’t know him enough to mourn him. You’re just human.
And, as humans do, they grow tired of work. So when you were given time off to “mourn” (the most generous thing Joja has done in your office-history) and you found out via his will that the farm was left to you… well, the cozy town of “Pelican Town” (honestly, what a weird name, the town residing in “Stardew Valley”—which in your opinion, is even weirder) interested you as a pleasant, lazy vacation spot. Plus, you’d have to sell all his animals and home anyway, so why not visit while you have the opportunity? You still wish your mom could handle this instead, but she said it would ‘build character.’ God, she didn’t seem bothered by his death at all. But, whatever. Whatever ‘building character’ means. You have plenty of character.
So one long, long train and a bus ride later (you’re pretty sure the bus broke down when you finally arrived), you got off and briskly took the starkest right straight toward the farm that your mother had marked like a treasure map on a shitty screenshot of Pelican Town she texted you a day ago.
What you expected: a big red and white barn, open fields, plant life and animals that obviously you assume some sort of Mayor would’ve managed until you were here…
But… nope. You could’ve sworn the farm was big in your memories, unmemorable as they were, spacious and you definitely remembered some chickens or pigs or something, but here you are, and there’s nothing but a sad, depressing cabin with a pile of wood. Jeez, you had to suck in your stomach to squeeze through some closely grown trees that looked a few inches off of kissing, that’s how overcrowded the sorry excuse of a “farm” was.
“Fuck,” you can barely grit through your teeth, shoulders aching from lugging a backpack and some luggage for far too long, staring face-to-face with a far too expansive spiderweb that blocked off the door. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if you opened the door and you’d see your grandpa there on the bed, still rotting. Could the townspeople give that little of shits? Well, even if they’re country bumpkins (pardon your judgement, you have a bit of pride as a city gal), you can’t expect all of them to be experienced farmhands, but god, not one?
…It could also be your grandfather’s fault, to be fair. He probably made enough money for retirement and just lounged here for the rest of his days. Maybe he was too weak to care for anything.
Damn, why’d you have to think about that? Sad old people make you sad. Ugh, whatever!
Ducking under the spiderweb that gave you arachnophobic shivers (you are NOT getting rid of that, no, hell no. Someone else has to handle that!) you cautiously stepped inside. Floorboards creaking, webs in the corners, but it wasn’t too shabby. In fact, you’d call it pleasantly cozy. Wow, there was even a TV. A bit of fidgeting and maybe a kick or two, you were able to get the TV on, but you couldn’t figure out how to turn down the blaring volume—so you quickly turned it off. A fireplace, a drawstring light… You tug, watching the lightbulb flicker to life and aid the evening sun in lighting up the room.
Only two windows. That’s a bit claustrophobic, but okay, sure. You blink, spotting a tall plant in the corner. Having no idea what it is—maybe a fern?—you grab a bottle of water you stored for the trip, pouring a fifth of it into the pot. You knew jack shit about plants, but it did look a little wilted. You can only assume nobody thought to water it since grandpa passed.
…Oh?
There was a gift. A shoddy cardboard box wrapped with purple ribbon and a tied-on envelope with some makeshift twine.
Setting aside your stuff and kneeling down, you begin prying open the box with your hands, a struggle that lasts you embarrassingly long. Perhaps it's the anemia and vitamin D deficiency, you have no clue, but your physical prowess was clearly in the shitter. Seriously, grandpa was delusional for thinking I could be a farmer.
You’re just about to pry open the flaps of the box, but you hesitate, turning toward the envelope. You should read that, first.
Cute. It’s sealed with purple wax. You feel bad snapping it open and ruining the design.
The paper you pull out is old and worn, and you’re stunned slowly with the realization that this paper is likely handmade, rather than bought from a print shop. It’s hard to properly decipher the perfect, angled cursive of your grandpa’s unfamiliar handwriting, but you eventually figure out the first few words—then the rest comes easily.
For my very special granddaughter,
Have patience. There will come a day when you feel crushed by the burden of modern life, and your bright spirit will fade before a growing emptiness. When that happens, my girl, you’ll be ready for this gift.
When you feel that great emptiness, read this letter again. This is my message for that time: you must be in dire need of a change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I’d lost sight of what mattered most in life… real connections with people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong. I’ve given you the deed—my pride and joy, located at Stardew Valley’s coast. It’s the perfect place to start your new life. This was my most precious gift of all, and now it’s yours. I know you’ll honor the family name, my dear. Good luck.
Grandpa is going to rest now. Remember, I’ll always love you.
P.S., Say hi to the old guy Lewis for me, will ya?
You swallow, but you barely succeed in forcing the saliva down your throat. Your eyes burn, predictably. “Damnit,” you mutter, pressing your right palm against the matching eye, trying to force the tears back in as if brute force could do so. Your left eye continues scanning the message, vision already blurry. You hardly knew the guy. You didn’t even know his age, or god, his birthday.
How can you miss someone you barely remember meeting?
But the letter, so full of love, made it impossible to not feel like you missed out on a great opportunity. “And who the fuck is Lewis,” you say tearfully, feeling like a bastard of a child. You came here to sell your grandpa’s dream—goddamn. No, whatever. You don’t have any sort of ‘great emptiness.’ The idea of being a farmer—with all the bugs, the (literal animal) shit, having to rise early every morning… You’re already drained from just doing office work. You can’t imagine how much harder it is to manage your own business, practically.
You turn back to the box, ripping open the flaps. Labeled on a beige bag with a badly drawn Parsnip yellow parsnip with a shoddy marker.
Your barely recovered puffy eyes burn again, and you hurriedly blink, trying to push away the love you’re receiving from a face you barely recall. Mentally, you decide to blame your mother for your lack of visitations, trying to escape some of the sudden on-set guilt. Ugh, just focus.
Logic. Think of Joja. Office work. You’re a serious, serious office worker: you are logical.
The farm is in the shitter, clearly. Staring out the window now at the starry sky, you can only frown. You have one week to fix this enough to sell for more than just a penny. But that’s… so much effort. You glance at the calendar. Spring 1.
You, honestly, don’t have that effort in you. Not anymore. You just want to go to sleep, and you miss having wifi for your phone. Even data doesn’t reach that far out here. God, night is so loud here. The crickets are chirping, you can hear owls, and who knows what the hell else. You’re used to near silence other than the white-noise zipping of cars.
And it’s humid, hot, and you’re scared to lie down in your grandpa’s bed because of a variety of reasons. Mainly, it’s very sufficiently possible that he died in that bed. Secondly, bugs.
Thirdly…
It’s his bed. Somehow it feels disrespectful, like a wrong. You eye the plain beige sheets, slowly stepping over and sitting down. They’re in good condition. Now that you’re sitting, the exhaustion from the day’s trip hits deep, and you toss aside all hesitations. If any bugs dare to come near you, you’ll smash them with the fury of a thousand suns, and honestly? Grandpa wouldn’t mind you sleeping in his bed, anyway.
You hide your face under the covers in fear of spiders crawling in your mouth whilst sleeping (and also to quiet the crickets screaming at the top of their lungs) and let yourself get some shut eye.
DAY 1 (Spring 1) — You’re woken at 6 A.M. (proven by a quick glance at your phone) by a knock on the door that makes you feel a craving for violence.
When you open the door, you’re stunned to see a rather tall, bit of a pudgy man with a brown cap and a shockingly well-kept grey mustache. And a… green button-up and a yellow tie? Holy fashion disaster. Maybe the country has a different fashion style… Zuzu City is the most advanced in the world, at least entertainment-wise. You’d know from your amount of doomscrolling that you’re getting withdrawals from.
You realize you must look like a mess—slept in the clothes you arrived in (not that the stranger would know, to be fair), hair unbrushed, teeth unbrushed, and barefoot. You can only thank god that the floor has been sanded enough to not leave you with a billion splinters. The stranger grins, something bittersweet in his expression as he observes you before he offers his hand. “The new farmer!” He exclaims in a cheery greeting, and you pretend not to feel your heart drop.
When you clumsily shake his hand and thank god you have the excuse of grief for your unkempt appearance, you can only off a terse smile in return. “I-I don’t know about that,” you sputter. Not that you typically end up in a stutter, but your tinge of people-pleasing nature seemed to activate when you could sense the obvious possible disappointment this random stranger would feel if you denied inheriting the farm right now. Your brain finally activates enough to notice the redheaded woman next to him, and you swallow. Well, she’s pretty, you think. She looks like a lumberjack.
“Yes, hello,” the redhead offers her hand next, and you take it, suddenly feeling much more humiliated about your appearance. “You must be—”
She says your name, and suddenly you feel even more embarrassed. You knew they knew you were coming, but still. She said your name with such friendliness that you can’t help but wonder how affectionately your grandfather must’ve spoken of you to receive such a favorable impression clear on both their faces. Also, wow. This lady’s hands are calloused. Compared to yours, she’d clearly be a much better farmer.
“I’m Robin, the local carpenter. I was going to pick you up from the bus stop, but you came a day earlier than expected,” she explains, apologetic, thick brows furrowing. She pulls away her hand, and you look back at the gentlemen. “We really are happy you’ve inherited the farm,” she chimes in again, accidentally cutting off the fashion disaster on her right. “Sure, it’s a bit overgrown, but there’s some good soil underneath that mess.”
Fuck. Why are they all under the assumption you’re going to become a farmer?! You’re an office worker! You barely have a bachelor’s degree!
“With a little dedication, you’ll have it cleaned up in no time,” she says, chipper as can be, and despite your weakness for pretty older women, you want to smack her a little.
Lightly elbowing the carpenter, the man chimed back in “Welcome! I’m Lewis, Mayor of Pelican Town.”
Ah, Lewis. That made sense. You hesitate, unsure if you should mention grandpa’s “hello,” or if that’d be a bitter reminder.
“You know, everyone’s been asking about you,” Mayor Lewis continues, and you feel a cold sweat despite the beginning warmth of spring. Why me?! Seriously, why me?! Your thoughts become a whirlwind, and you can’t help but gnaw on your lip. Grandpa, you’re such a dick! Did you seriously tell everyone before you kicked the bucket that I’m your farming nepo-baby?!
You stare at them a little longer and note that the spiderweb blocking off your door and causing you to crawl like a cryptid the other night was thankfully gone. You assume Robin probably whacked it down. She seems tough like that, probably, if she’s a carpenter.
“It’s not every day that someone new moves in. It’s quite a big deal!” Mayor Lewis chuckles as he says it, and you feel a new bead of sweat roll down your forehead in pure people-pleaser terror.
Moving… in…? Into this shitshow?! No, you were about to move out of your parents house to an apartment, you had plans, you—
“So…” Mayor Lewis glances around, then speaks to you like telling a secret. “You’r removing into your grandfather’s old cottage. It’s a good house!” He pauses, attempting to be polite, “...very ‘rustic.’”
You grit your teeth, feeling the slightest bit faint. You’re just gonna have to speed out of here without anyone noticing. It’s not like you know any of these people.
“Rustic?” Robin quotes, this time playfully elbowing the man beside her, “that’s one way to put it. ‘Crusty,’ might be a little more apt, though.”
Gee, thanks, you think, eyelid twitching. Insult my dead grandpa’s house. Okay, it’s not like I care enough to be personally offended, but still.
You take a big gulp of air, correcting your own thoughts, C’mon. She didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… agitated.
Composure, well, recomposed, you focus back on the two’s exchange. “Rude!” Mayor Lewis chides, and maybe you can forgive him for waking you at 6 A.M.
“Don’t listen to her,” he insists, “She’s just trying to make you dissatisfied so that you buy one of her house upgrades.”
Ah. So capitalism even sinks its teeth in country bumpkin-town. Fair enough.
Robin scoffs, but it’s half-hearted, clearly not a true offense in her exaggerated reaction. It’s cute, like a little comedy skit, if you weren’t still half-asleep.
“Anyways…” Mayor Lewis trails off, “you must be tired from the long journey. You should get some rest. Tomorrow you ought to explore the town a bit and introduce yourself.”
The more they talk, the more noticeable their accents become. They pronounce their “c”’s and “s”’s a little weird. It’s a combination of the traditional coastal and southern accents, but fine enough to understand. It’s faint enough you wouldn’t notice in a phone call, but still distinct enough that the more you pick up on it, the more obvious it is.
“The townspeople would appreciate that,” Mayor Lewis adds, as if you owe these people anything, as if they’re really your neighbors. Your social battery drains at the thought, even if normally you’d say you’re on the extroverted side. You enjoyed being social with your friends, not random people that expected you to become the jolly Farmer Joe.
He begins to walk away… then freeze and linger. He turns around, as if just remembering something. “Oh, I almost forgot! If you have anything to sell, just place it in this box here,” he gestures to the wooden compost-looking box you hadn’t noticed up until that point. Since when was that there? You also notice that the worst of the trees had been chopped—oh, that’s nice. Robin gains back a few points, too.
"I’ll come by during the night to collect it.”
The night? That’s so dangerous, what if he gets killed or kidnapped or—oh, right, this isn’t the city. The worst threat out here is probably a bear. To be fair, a bear is a pretty big threat, but a pretty rare threat, too, you imagine. Also, wait, that’s kind of creepy. Or is it not…? Maybe that’s kind of nice. It’s hard for you to tell, you’re used to older men just being sleazy leering creeps, not a gentle-toned older man who looked at you like you’re the incarnation of their best friend. So much pressure, you think, mentally cursing your mother out to the moon and back. I want to go home so bad right now.
He bows your head to you, tipping his hat. “Well, good luck!”
Awh, old people can be endearing sometimes.
Thump.
Your head whips around back to Robin, totally forgetting that she was there, and she drops a large shoulder-strap bag that could likely fit a reasonably-sized child inside. When she unzips it and pulls out an axe, you nearly faint. In broad daylight?! Is your first panicked thought, then, should I run?!
But instead, she offers it to you, expression kind. Your racing heart begins to slow, fingers slow as you take it from her grasp, testing it in your hands. It’s fucking heavy. Oh, yeah. You’re definitely no farmer.
Then she gives you another axe. A pickaxe.
Your eyes widen. Why the hell would you ever need a pickaxe?
“For the mines—Clint helped me make them for you,” she says, as if that explains anything. “You should probably have a hoe and watering can inside in one of the drawers, but I know your grandfather likely didn’t keep the other supplies. He only frequented the mines when he was young—so I’ve heard from Lewis—so he’d long ago tossed his out, I suppose. The pickaxe.”
Her clarification just reads as verbal hieroglyphics to you: utter nonsense. Are they genuinely expecting you to get to work? Holy fuck, you want to go home. You want to burst her bubble, but then you realize that someone literally crafted you iron weapons, and you seal keep your mouth shut. They seriously made you this stuff…?
You stare at the two tools in your hands, frowning.
“I wouldn’t recommend going to the mines that often though—just the surface levels, for copper, stone… Just supplies. It’s dangerous.”
No shit, Sherlock, you thoughts rush, city-life shattered by the idea of mining like it's the 1900s.
“I assume your grandfather’s axe would still be in there but… I wouldn’t want you to risk breaking one of the belongings of your grandfather, so I made you one.”
Ugh, that’s sweet. Your irritation is snuffed out by heavy-set exhaustion, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight this situation anymore, not that you did in the first place. Not that you won’t get the hell out of this place by the end of the week—5 days from now, you’re getting out. You need your safe, steady office job. Your safe, steady life. You need a paycheck. Not begging for gold by selling some trashily grown potatoes, or something.
“Thank you, Robin,” you say, wanting to go straight back to sleep.
She hesitates, hand awkwardly reaching for your weighed down arms (thanks to her and her tools!) putting both her hands on your shoulders. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
You look up at her, heart feeling a little raw. Maybe it hit harder because she’s around your mother’s age. “I’m alright, Robin, don’t worry!” You exclaim, forcing some energy in your voice.
“And... thank you. I’ll put it to good use,” you lie through your teeth.
Robin pulls away, expression smooth, and nods her head to you. “Good luck, farmer.”
The second she dips around the bend, you toss the tools aside (drop them lazily, you’re hardly strong enough to lift them), latching the door shut and throwing yourself back into bed. You just want to sleep the day away. Who cares about fixing this place up? Let’s just sell it as is. Mom never said anything about making a good profit, anyway. That was just your assumption.
You’d nearly say you miss the office, but that’d be a 100% lie. Admittedly, though, you did miss the AC.
“Hot,” you mutter, shutting your eyes, barely able to kick off your shoes. Just take your vacation, bounce, then sell. That’s what you’re here for, after all.
Chapter 2: SPRING 2, SPRING 3
Chapter Text
DAY 1.5 (Spring 1) — You wake in the “morning” (5 P.M.) with a headache and dry mouth. You can only sit and stare, unsure of what to do. Without your job, albeit temporarily, you were overcome with the realization that other than doomscrolling, you’ve lost most of your hobbies. You tried a bunch of stuff when you were a kid—mom’s idea—but none of it ever really stuck, spare for doodling in the margins of your notebooks during class.
And now, with no connection to the internet…
You were so bored.
Mayor Lewis wanted you to head to town and introduce yourself, but… God, that was way too much effort. Plus, the day is basically over. It’s 5 P.M. What’s the point of trying to do anything after 5? It’s practically night time.
And plus, why should you? You’re not the farmer. That was grandpa, and he’s long dead.
…Err… not long dead, but he is definitely dead.
You entertain yourself by watching a little fly crawl up your wall, quietly praying it won’t fly at you. Finally, checking the time, you can only frown. It’s been only 10 minutes. Was time always this slow?
This… sucks.
Time, for the first time in your life, seems to be firmly in your hands rather than casually slipping away. What is there to even do here?
You take a glance at those parsnip seeds. There were 10 little bags, probably a seed each.
…Hell no, you weren’t that bored. Physical labour? You’d rather die, even if you were currently dying of boredom. Plus, don’t plants need room to grow? You’d have to… ugh… clear the area a little. You’ve never touched an axe in your life. How would you cut down a tree?
You throw yourself back into your sheets, trying to force sleep to come again.
DAY 2 (Spring 2) — You sleep fitfully. Switching between rereading the same book you brought for the bus ride and brief sessions of 30-minute-to-an-hour of sleep, you find yourself awake at 12 A.M. with a scowl on your face and a worse headache and a worse case of dry mouth.
Chugging the rest of the water you had partially sacrificed to the fern a few hours ago, you stumble to the tiny bathroom attached to the cabin (as well as turning on the light). You handle yourself, then hesitantly turn on the faucet to refill the thermos, carefully observing it. It seems the water is probably good to drink… You don’t see bits of dirt, or anything.
You drink it, then promptly spit it out back into the sink. “Eugh!” You recoil, glaring at the thermos as if it was a criminal. “Why does it taste like that?!” You ask no one, perhaps going a little insane in your not-fully-consensual phone-detox. Fuck, you knew tourists had spoken about it, but maybe Zuzu City’s water was more “salty,” or something, because this water…
It’s… ugh… bad.
You steal yourself, pinching your nose and chugging the rest before refilling it again. Even if it was… ugh… you didn’t really have a choice. Where else would you get water? From a muddy pond in the ground? Yeah, no thanks. It’s midnight, you’re tired, and if you read one more line of the cheap romance your mother gave you ‘to tide you over for the ride’ you might just buy one gun and one bullet.
Sitting at the rickety table and chair, you can only shiver as you set the thermos down. God, it was colder than Santa’s balls right now. You glance at the fireplace, but you come to the slow and horrific realization that there’s no switch for it—you genuinely have to light it. You assume that the wood in this house is high quality in some way so that it doesn’t easily catch fire (and the fireplace is surrounded by brick, too, obviously), but it’s still… lighting a fire in such a cabin felt incredibly unsafe.
And that meant you’d have to walk outside and grab the lumber to fill that empty fireplace. How many mosquitos would eat you alive before you make it back inside? How many spiders would you let in? The mere idea makes you want to hyperventilate. No thanks.
“Best vacation ever,” you say sarcastically to the quiet of the cabin, and only a loud-ass cricket that’s hopefully outside answers you. Even if technically wasn’t a ‘vacation’ and was technically time to ‘mourn and put affairs in order,’ it still took days off your allotted vacation time (thanks, Joja!), so you’ll call this trip whatever you want, thank you as well.
You glance to the TV and then the drawer beneath it. You kneel down, tugging it open with too much strength (you were sort of expecting a lock) and dangerously jostling the fatass TV that you narrowly save. God, is this the 80s?
Glimpsing inside the drawer, you weren’t too shocked at what you saw. Pressed up against the ‘wall’ of the drawer was a rotten, blunt old axe and a surprisingly well-kept hoe. Also inside was stacks and stacks of collared shirts and overalls, making the few outfits (and pajama sets) you took with you your ‘nicest’ clothes currently. Rummaging through the drawer a little, you didn’t find much, until—
“Ouch!”
You whip your hand back, staring at the little papercut. “Ouch,” you repeat, offended, pressing a kiss to your fingertip before returning your glare to whatever book or paper that just cut you. With a grunt, you’re able to pry the leather-bound book from the grasp of those far too heavy overalls.
Opening to the first page, it takes only a moment to match the writing from the letter your grandfather left you to the journal. Ah. Grandpa. Your brows simply furrow, too exhausted to feel much.
This time, there was no inspirational writing encouraging you to gamble your life away.
…Only plants.
Parsnip
Spring
Vegetable
A spring tuber closely related to the carrot. It has an earthy taste and is full of nutrients.
4 Days
Water Daily
Sells for 35-77G
…35-77? G? Gold? Really…?
Your brows furrow, and you randomly skip through the journal.
Crystal Fruit
Winter
Fruit
Winter Wild Seeds, Foraged
Sells for 150-300G
300? Are you reading that right?
You flip a little bit more.
Mango
Summer
Fruit
28 Days
Water Daily
Sells for 130-286G
Slamming the journal shut, you toss it right on the table. Maybe this farming stuff is more serious than you originally thought. Well, nobody would do a job for free, you remind yourself.
You look back at those little parsnip seeds. Biting your lip, you consider. It’s free money. I’m going to be here for a week anyway, what’s 4 days work for possibly 770G?
Well, 770G you assume is the best-case scenario, which a sad little part of you can’t help but hope for. That’s more than you make in a week—the standard salary at Joja is just 700G for the office. But… that’s… so much effort.
Normally, you wouldn’t even hesitate with this choice. You’d think, ‘Oh, that’s cool!’ and go straight back to rotting in your bed before the next day of work. But without your phone—without your computer—and with only one book to entertain yourself… Really, what else can you do right now?
It’s not like you want to be a farmer. You aren’t stupid. Who says all the parsnips would grow properly in 4 days? Who says you’d be good at growing them? What about winter, where nothing grows (despite how the journal mentioned… no, don’t think too much about it! It really doesn’t matter!)? This place is rotting your brain.
But a little extra pocket money wouldn’t hurt. You seriously have nothing else to do and clearing some of the area would probably make this place more sellable.
Clicking your tongue, you crawl a little backward, grabbing the hilt of the axe Robin had given you. Then you loop back, tugging out the hoe from the drawer with a grunt of effort. Wielding the two as-if weapons in a zombie thriller, you trudge outside before kicking the door shut. Why do they weigh so much?! Your arms only used to the exertion of typing are already groaning. You try not to think about the fact they probably only weigh 10 pounds each.
It’s the early morning (roughly 1 A.M.), leaving you to try not to think about whatever critters are likely in the forest, watching you. You drop the hoe onto the porch, wielding the axe with two, white-knuckled hands. There were three trees now in your way: an insurmountable task for the city-girl you. But just for these four days—for 770G—you would be a farmer.
Even if you had no clue how to do so.
You swing your axe far behind your head and slam it into the tree—the force of which rattles throughout your entire body. You immediately release the handle and slump to the ground, shoulder blades throbbing and getting the lazy outfit that you had worn for two days now terribly messy. “My leggings,” you lament, already regretting this.
…
You did regret it, even more so after a change of clothes. Now dressed in a dead man’s overalls (and after soaking your leggings in the sink that are now drying on the banister of the porch) (also, uh, thanks, Grandpa?) you got back to “work.”
With each thrust of the axe, you could feel your spine practically misalign. Holy fuck, is all you can think on the fifth attempt. I must be doing this wrong.
But nobody’s here to teach you… except maybe that carpenter lady. But why ask her and get her hopes up when you’re out of here in a few days? Let’s just fuck up your spine now. It already is from slouching all day in the plastic chairs of Joja’s office.
To your surprise, however, at the 13th swing (after the first many, many tries)…
…!
You had to jump out of the way—“Holy fuck!”—as the tree came tumbling down. It practically shatters on the ground, likely sending a splinter into your face, but gosh, you don’t care.
For a few minutes, you can only huff, inhaling and exhaling like a drowned man. Your entire body burns, and you’re not even kidding. You’re already exhausted. Yet laughter comes bubbling out of your throat—“Hahahaha!” You look at your hands, throwing the axe over your shoulder and staring at your hands, your hands!—uncalloused and already blistering, stunned at your own accomplishment. “I did it!” You shout proudly to no one, yet you don’t mind the lack of outward acknowledgement.
You kick the stump, then swiftly regret it. You curse loudly into the night (and scare off a few far-too-early morning birds), but you can’t help yourself as you pick the axe back up and get to splitting the stump.
…Don’t get anything mixed up, though. You’re still going back on Saturday.
And to be honest, at the 2nd tree, the excitement had long worn off. Now you were just using it to vent.
“I hate my job!”
“I think Joja Cola tastes like garbage!”
“I think my boss looks like a misshapen toad!”
“I have no friends!”
“My life sucks!”
When the 2nd tree fell, all you could do was heave, lungs aching. Honestly, you're glad nobody lives (presumedly) near the farm, because this would be depressing as hell to overhear. This is why you can’t be a farmer. You already want to cry and give up (again) despite the fact you’re also weirdly… having… fun?
…You? Having fun? Doing physical labour???
By the third tree falls, your hands’ blisters are bleeding and full of splinters from lugging wood to the large lumber compartment on the side of your house. But seeing the lawn cleared (well, a fraction of it that’s close to the farmhouse), you can’t help but be a little prideful.
Then you remember you have to till the ground. And then… dig holes… and then plant the seeds…
You look to the horizon, seeing the barest rays of the sun peeking into the sky.
It’s already 5 A.M.? How much of a slow worker am I?
Your gaze wanders back to your hands, raw and irritated, but the pain just makes you feel livelier. If you lie down now, you’ll crash, hard.
Plus, you have to plant them today… it said 4 days, and you’ve been here for three. Well, technically, you don’t really count Winter 28 (since you arrived in the evening), but your vacation was only from then to Spring 6.
…
Fuck.
You grab the hoe, and fight back tears as you drag it across the ground, swiping at ferns as you go. With every tug on a weed, you can feel your already mushy arms groan.
Fuck my life.
Was boredom ever that bad?
By the time the sun is at the highest point in the sky, you have 10 little divots (all a foot apart), each containing a parsnip seed. Covering it with soil, you only have the effort to use your thermos as a watering can instead of heading inside and filling the one that was probably hidden somewhere in the house (probably under the bed, or something). The sun is blazing down your back, you have at least 10 matching mosquito bites, your hands are shoddily covered in bandaids and feel like they’re leaking with the amount of sweat, and you realize you very much can never be a farmer.
This? Every day? For multiple fields? Hell no. But perhaps you can remember this fondly as a past experience, retelling it at classy afterwork parties. Probably a good conversation starter: ‘Did you know I was a farmer for a week?’ to help you charm your future spouse. Pft. You snort at the idea. You. A husband or wife. The idea is ridiculous.
The moment you get inside, though, the fantasy becomes welcome (if only for dreamland) as you collapse into your—err, your grandfather’s—bed. You probably smell. So bad.
But honestly? You don’t have the effort right now. Well, you didn’t think you had the effort for farming, too…
…Sigh.
You force your fantasy away as you rise from the bed, a shocking development of willpower never seen before. And you force yourself to shower, you force yourself into pajamas, you turn out the light, and you lie back down.
When you wake on DAY 3, you water the parsnips. Not without complaining, obviously. You barely had enough strength to move and have the strongest migraine of your life. Yeah, farm life is definitely not for you.
Gabioro on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Sep 2025 05:15PM UTC
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gossiper on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Sep 2025 07:40PM UTC
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