Flowering Fields of Fortune
Even before the first shoots emerged, however, he himself was underground, a body used up and worn out before its time.
A fruitless life tilling the soil. Hard, hard work, and always an eye out for the chance, the shortcut to riches that would allow him to rest, even one day, even one lie-in. Farming was all he had known, however, and every pound he sowed into a new plan was lost three times over.
So back to the land. The daily grind. The seasons turned and the melancholy routines never changed. And every harvest yielded yet less return. How the price of everything continually rose, with the one notable exception of his own crops, was a question that ate away at him morning, noon and night, seven days a week, winter, spring, summer and autumn.
Property, specialist breeds, farm-experience holidays, music festivals, pyramid schemes, he had tried it all. His spectacular failings were down to a particularly piquant combination of his ill luck, his ill timing, and his commitment to being ill-informed.
He ploughed thousands into property, weeks before the crash, he joined a huge and profitable ‘airplane game’ at the seventh level and was milked at an efficiency he could only dream of for his cows.
A lifetime of the dashed hopes, failures and hard work left his brain partially cracked and when a plausible rogue offered him 10,000 ‘magic’ pennies for only 5,000 pounds he couldn’t resist. The long-haired, long bearded con-man donned his druidical robes to incant over the pennies, genuine ones he had collected that morning from the bank. Our hapless hero thanked him and ploughed them in there and then.
Sadly that very night he expired. Eight months later excited neighbours carefully guarded the secret they stumbled upon on the land of the irascible old farmer, who had died without issue, wholly alone.
They soon found the buds resembled pennies, and if left would blossom into larger coins, and eventually grow into notes. As they grew and matured the transformation continued, eventually the fruits fluttering to the floor creating a carpet of beautiful, legal, fifty pound notes.
And Larry, the con artist? Dear reader, you will be, I trust, pleased to hear he never discovered the delicious con nature had played upon him, just as he was conning our desperate farmer.
Today I wrote between 23:14 and 23:24. I was prompted by an idea here.
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