Evening, everyone. Name's Jessup. Jessup Reilly the 3rd. Get all your giggles over the hillbilly stereotype out now; I haven't had someone to talk to in a while and I got plenty to say, starting with the shithole I used to call a farm. Safe to say, "Scorched" Earth is a kind description of what my home has become. I remember the laughter I shared there with my wife, my daughter, and my farmhands before it came... they came. 

Weatherman said it was nothing more than a few critters floating by from up north. Mayor told us it wouldn't affect the crops longer than a week or so; just sacrifice a few stalks and they'd be on their way. I'm almost glad those pests got 'em before the evacuations. 

My farm used to be the county gem; 100 acres of fruits, vegetables, grain, and livestock to feed an army, with every plant and animal dating back to my Granddad's seeds and original herds. I almost let out a chuckle at the irony as I passed a withered cow horn. Couldn't have been Bessie's; I found hers months ago. No, this had to be dad's star bull, Sully... even through all the dust and decay, I can still see how strong he used to be. Never lost a competition at the fair, the old stud.

Shovel starts digging into my back and I realize I should sit a spell. I'm not an old man, but I've lost a few more pounds than I care to admit, and these tools seem to get heavier every day. Would probably sprain my hip trying to pick up my daughter if she were here. Little Hazel, my precious angel. She begged me to join her and her Mama, my darling wife Amelia; said that we could start fresh somewhere else, as long as we had each other. I never found the heart to tell her that there was nowhere else. Turns out, it's pretty hard to explain to a 5-year-old her favorite pets are too sick to stand, much less sell to another farm, and that Granddad's old policy ain't worth what it used to be. Amelia got tired of waiting and went South... she doesn't even send me pictures or pleading letters no more. Last I heard, she found a nice car salesman, got a new house. I can't help but hope Hazel approves of the fella.

Sun starts beating hard, and I realize I'm back where I started: The old house. Sure, it looks and smells like shit now, but it used to be a stunner. Bright blue with a chimney that could touch the sky. Cellar full of jam and cured fish for the cold months. Amelia and I dancing to the oldies, embarrassing Hazel in front of her friends. I still have her old teddy bear; she wanted to leave me something to remember her by, so we'd never feel too far away from each other. I should look for it in the dresser once I'm done. I'm too close to stop now.

I get up from my little siesta and keep walking. Spot a few of the locusts half-dead and twitching on the hard soil. No corn or grain to chow on, I guess they couldn't make it to a new hovel with the rest of the swarm. Damn shame for 'em. I almost stop to put 'em out of their misery, but I can't. Let 'em suffer; I need to save my strength anyway. 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

After a few miles, I see just what I need: A soft patch. That light drizzle last night was just enough. I damn near lose my sanity, start crawling on the ground like a lizard trying to get to his hole before the crows find him. When I get to the soil, see it up close, I just stare at it, making sure it's really there. Then I get to work.

After all this time, I still remember the old tending tricks my dad showed me. He always said the farm was our legacy, that it'd survive far after we were gone. My brothers have long forgotten about this place, went to big firms in the city straight out of law school, left me with the mud and muck. I'm all Dad's memory has left... all this place has left.

Spread the soil, plant a few seeds, and wait. I make a few runs back to the house to get a little jerky, maybe an old can to crap in, but other than that, I don't leave this patch's side. It's my one shot at putting it all back together.

I lose track of how many nights it's been. Turn over to sleep, then wake up to the rising sun for days, weeks, maybe a couple months. I get up one morning to leave, decide to get a bit more jerky from the house, until I see it: A sprout. Can barely remember what I planted, but it's growing. I see some clouds forming, and I can smell the dew in the air. They have everything they need: Water, a patch of healthy soil, sunlight... it can finally come back. My family can have a home again.

My throat's too dry to howl my excitement, so I run to the house to get some paper and a pen. If I don't write it now, I'll forget to tell everyone. My brothers, Amelia, Hazel, should even leave a little note on Dad's slot at the old mausoleum. I run back to the sprouts so I can describe the little roots to a tee... then my hand slips off the paper. I drop the pen, lean to pick it up, but my legs give out. I roll in the sand, the sun blaring on my back, but nothing works with me. My arms soak into the sand, my legs just kick the air for mercy, and my throat starts to close, not that screaming would help much no way. I think I'm crying, a mix of joy from the sprouts and sadness from realizing I won't see my daughter again, but when I look at the ground all I see is light red blood pouring out my nose and eyes, and my body feels like it lost all its moisture. It's fine now. I did what I had to do. The sprouts will grow, bees will come back and pollinate, then some selfie-obsessed tourist will pass by and spread the word. Amelia and Hazel will know I left something for them, that I didn't forget. 

I close my eyes, let the sun take me in, knowing I made my Dad proud, until two things hit me: One, I never found Hazel's old bear. Can't even bring her scent to my heart as I go to the pearly gates. Second... a faint caw over the hills. I force my eyes open. Every muscle in my face is screaming, but I have to know. A chicken? A robin, maybe? I push my eyes to the western sky and see a mix of black feathers and pink, drooping skin. Don't know whether to laugh or curse as I feel the talons hit my arm, dragging its claws through the sprouts, and the beak poke at my chest...

Then, nothing. Nothing but dark, the memory of flitting bugs... and failure... I'm sorry, my sweet Hazel...