Rolling Hills: A Short-story Set in a Serene Community

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The view from the farmhouse was that of fields on rolling hills. In the summertime, the hills came alive with Elfun grass that swayed with the breeze. The autumn, Kara watched from her bedroom window as the men harvested the grass, gathering it up with scythe and twine, then loading it on to the wagons. In the winters, the hills were barren mounds of short stubble that lay in wait for the spring thaw. And, in spring, the first signs of life sprouted and grew nearly fast enough to be seen with the naked eye.

Her father had planted the Elfun grass. It was a tall and thick and a deep emerald green. The fields were once a dense forest that her great-great-grandfather had begun clearing in his youth. The lumber he harvested built their farm and barns as well as half the village. Despite her family’s long connection to the land, the fields were not theirs. Rather, they were communal property, as were most open spaces in their realm.

The farmhouse though, that was theirs, at least so long as they remained caretakers of the fields. It was the role of caretaker that allowed her father the authority to plant Elfun grass, albeit with the approval of the village. Now Kara watched as the men of the village helped gather up the year’s crop, divvying up the harvest equally for all. It was peaceful work, honest and noble. It was good work…