Tabula Rasa

My calloused hands hadn’t recovered from last year’s efforts, still burning with a fear of what was to come, subconsciously twitching at any casual mention of crops, clenching whenever I looked out from the peak of The Hill towards the fields that splayed themselves below. The town got to planning and was abuzz with activity - this was the most important week of the year; treated with such reverence that I was sure we had all lost our minds years ago. Our schedule was announced: work, prepare, rest, Harvest, feast. Excitement lived like a gluttonous parasite, latching on to - and feeding off of - every one of us. I loathed its presence. Suddenly it was Harvest’s Eve, I hadn’t slept since preparations had commenced and my insomniatic demon led me to the edge of the field. By this point my palms housed an inferno that yearned for liberty. The corn caught alight with such ease that I wondered why I hadn’t done it years sooner, saving myself an annual subscription of agony. As the sun rose I heard the first screams as jets of panicked hydration soothed me in their futile attempts of recovery. I sighed freedom as the first blow landed.