A Seed of Dreams
King George V School, Sophie Qi, Fiction: Group 3
This is the story of 2 brothers, 1 desert, and a bucket of hope.
Yang:
The sun was mocking me. It slithered this way and that, shining into my eyes, summoning up
inhuman amounts of sweat from me.
An hour later, I gave up and sat on a nearby stone. I wanted to cry in frustration, but I had
no moisture for even that. I angrily cursed at myself for getting the short side of the stick - It had
been years since I last heard of my brother, he was probably somewhere out there in the neon light
city, probably getting drunk and partying.
Eventually, I did give myself a reality check and resumed working; although in my mind I
was laughing at myself. The only people who planted fruitless (Literally and figuratively) trees
were stupid and suicidal.
There used to be an oasis of green surrounding my farm. Now it’s died down to a small patch
supported by ‘magical seeds’ that apparently were immune to the desert heat.
Maybe my father was wrong about these ‘magical seeds’ left by our ancestors.
Maybe Pin was right - We should learn about new techniques before plunging head first into work.
Pin:
The investor practically spat in my face.
“Give money to you, a poor little farmer to build trees in the middle of nowhere? Hah! That’s
funny. I didn’t know monkeys could talk!”
I glared at him, and bit back a retort about his ridiculous suit that only covered a half of his
stomach fat.
Day after day, week after week it has been like this. Walking up to someone, only to have
them snigger at you. Here I was, broke and living in a refugee house, eating others’ leftovers for
meals. I tried to find someone to lend us money, or to teach us the tricks of trade.
Yang was probably at home; snuggled up comfortably in our house with the humble hens
and caring cows for company, while I was in this cold city, where only the rich can live. I was
ashamed of how little progress I had made, so I had never sent mails or visited Yang. Why
shouldn’t I just go home? We were probably better off without any fancy tricks anyway.
Yang:
That night a storm howls like the hounds form hell. It tramples over my freshly planted seeds,
washes over my house and plants itself firmly around the four corners of my house. I’m beginning
to think that I have enough sand in my house to build a sandman.
When I go outside, I find that all my recent plants have been cut cleanly in half - I must’ve
planted them in too deeply.
