Poems Of A Little Farmer

 

Miera Remington tried to listen to the strings of sentences that babbled from her family's mouths. But her thoughts kept drifting away, as the conversation was useless to her. 

Maybe if her family began conversing in topics other than crops and the weather, Miera might pay more attention. But when you live in a small farming cottage deep in the Alaskan wilderness, that's really all you talk about. 

“It’s getting colder, soon we’re going to be getting a great deal of frost.” Karter moaned as he continued munching on his mashed potato, which had been harvested early that morning. 

Miera clapped her hands over her eyes, burying her face into her hands. Wishing she was somewhere else. 

“You know what? I’m kind of tired after the long day. I might go get some rest.” She finally said, pushing her chair away from the table and trodding towards her room. 

“See you tomorrow then!” cried Mr Remington behind her, chewing his food whilst speaking. 

Miera climbed the wooden ladder that lead to the small smokehouse that her and Karter used as a bedroom.

Salted meat dangled on strings from the roof, and barrels of food stood propped against the wall. Pressed into the very back of the room, were two wooden beds, buried in piles of woolen blankets. 

Miera sighed, even from here she could still hear the chatter from the kitchen. More than anything, Miera wanted to fit in with her family. But she wasnt ready to put her dreams and gifts into a box and become a farmer. 

Reaching underneath her bed, Miera extracted her most beloved possession. Her notebook. 

Flopping onto the pile of blankets she called her bed, she held the notebook close to her, her fingers caressing the soft leather cover. 

But soon Karter’s hands appear, grimy with dirt, and Miera’s peace is ended. 

“Staring at that old thing again?” He asks, sitting on the corner of his own bed, rubbing his full stomach. 

“It's not old, and I am not staring at it!” Meira stated clearly, rolling her brown eyes. Karter’s own eyes were blue like his mothers, Meira however had taken on her father's features, gleaming orange hair and dreary brown eyes. 

“What do you even write in that thing anyway?” Karter asked. 

Karter had always been a true Remington, down to earth and devoted to the farm. No-one in the family understood Miera and her passion for writing poetry. 

Literature just wasn't a-part of their lives. 

“I write poetry, some journal entries and short stories here and there, but mostly poetry.” Miera explained enthusiastically, she seldom got to speak of her writing, and loved every moment that she did. 

Miera opened her notebook and cradled it in her lap.

“Let me read you something…” 

Miera began reading, not noticing that Karter was in his own world, picking at his black finger-nails. 

“Seldom do we now speak.” Miera finished proudly. 

Karter looked up from his nails and at his maniatical sister. Who was beaming with pride. 

“Ah, cool?” He tried.

Miera looked down at her hands, studying them as if they were some unnamed creature, her cheeks a rosy red. 

“Im sorry. It was great, really.” Karter stated, trying his best to be comforting, but failing. 

Miera placed her notebook back in its hiding place, and tried to figure out why she bothered to write anyways. No-one in her family listened or read anyways, and friends were something only in her dreams. 

“One day, everyone will read my poems. You will see.” Miera blurted out. She didn't mean to say that. But now that her dreams were in the open, it felt nice. 

                                                                           ***

Telephones ring around Miera, as she furiously types away, answering one of her hundreds of fan emails. 

The doorbell rings. 

Jumping up from her desk which is overflowing with notebooks and pens, laptops and typewriters, Miera opens the door of her New York City flat. 

“Morning Miss Miera!” chirps the postmen, handing over a clipboard on which Miera scribbles her signature on. 

The postman laughs, “Excited?” he asks. 

Miera grins sheepishly, “Words can’t describe my excitement!” Miera replied with a faint laugh. 

The postman collectes a heavy box in his arms and pushes it into the flat.

“Well, If the words were in your hands, I am sure they would describe it perfectly.” The postmen complemented, before clicking the door shut and moving to the next house. 

Adrenaline buzzed through Mieras hands as she shakily opened the box, revealing a large stack of books. 

Carefully plucking one from the box and bringing it to her face, she grinned, remembering that day she had read her poem to Karter. 

She could never have guessed that every poem and every short story in her old notebook, would be published for millions to read. 

Tracing the title of the book with her fingertip, she read the name a-loud. 

“Poems Of A Little Farmer”