Writing with Coffee

Morning, all! Or early afternoon, I guess. Hope everyone's doing well. We're going to get right down to business today, no pussyfooting around. Today's writing prompt is: Promised Land. Don't forget to share if you join along! And don't forget your coffee, either. I sure didn't.

Don't forget the rules! Set a timer for 10 minutes, don't overthink, don't edit. WRITE!

Promised Land 

            Barren fields of ashy brown lay beneath the sun as it rose. This was no bounty, not even a miracle. It was a curse. The soil had been tended with care, fertilized, turned, watered, loved. Still, nothing grew. The dirt didn’t even part way for a single weed.
            It was just dirt. Dirt didn’t sell. Still she toiled away, sweat already kissing her brow as she worked. The sun shone over her work and she wondered if it would be worth it in the long run. Would these fields, in mere weeks, be teeming with crops? With life? Would she have to fight off the wildlife to keep them from stealing her harvest? Her bounty?
            It was difficult to imagine. For weeks it had been just dirt.
            She worked.
            Birds cawed overhead, overlooking her field in favor of others. They saw that she worked hard but briefly before moving on to greener pastures. There was nothing there for them despite her hard work. Still, she tilled and toiled and tended to the soil. She’d even had it tested to make sure that it was fertile enough for growth.
            Perhaps it was her. She wasn’t working hard enough.
            Fingers callused, palms blistered, skin burnt from too much sun the doubt crept in her mind.
            She worked.
            This was hers. Even with the failure of its growth, it belonged to no one else.
            And she would work until the fields grew green, until she had something, anything to show. Even if the birds passed her by, even if the wildlife didn’t fight over her plants, she would work and she would have something worth showing.
            As she tilled the soil, preparing it for new seeds, she stopped when her fingers brushed something unfamiliar. It had been so long since she’d felt such a thing that she didn’t realize it was at first. Soft and smooth beneath her touch, it was a thin root of something.
            Something had grown.
            Lying on her stomach she admired the tiny thing and placed it back in the dirt. She patted the soil around it. No matter what it was, weed, flower, the vegetables she was growing, it was hers. She had grown this thing with her work, her hands.
            The wind brushed her hair to tickle her ears, loose from her ponytail and the sun shone brightly. Lips pursed she offered the delicate thing a kiss of the air and then she turned away from it.
            The brown earth seemed less ashen than before.
            Still, she worked.