literature

Harvesting (Onceler x Reader)

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    Beep beep. Beep beep. 

    The melodious song of your alarm clock blared beside you, the mere volume of the sound shaking the nightstand. With squinted eyes, you fumbled around in the darkness for your glasses. You pushed them up the bridge of your nose and looked at the time. Six in the morning. Fan-flippin'-tastic.

    Silencing the noisy device, you stood, running a hand through your messy (h/c) locks. I hadn’t intended to get up this early, especially on a Saturday, you thought to yourself, tired beyond belief.

    For the past few weeks, you’d been working tirelessly to care for your truffula farm. These eerie-looking clouds have been floating by lately, and all of the neighboring farmers down south had been telling you tales of woe about their now-massacred truffula trees.

    “Truffula tree killings? Who would do something like that?” You had asked a now unemployed harvester. He was silent for a second, palms damp and eyes darting left to right. Gulping hard, he cracked.

    “J-Just look out for a man in green, okay? The man in green,” he repeated, and then quickly ran away. Weirdo. You shrugged off his warning and got back to work. Worry is only for those who can afford it, and you definitely didn’t have a dime to spare.

    Yawning, you rolled out of bed and changed into clothes that had somehow morphed into your uniform: a black and red checkered shirt, worn overalls, and knee-high fishing boots. To say you looked drop-dead gorgeous is an obvious lie, but it wasn’t that crappy of a style choice, either; a few guys in the past have even called me kinda cute…

    Then again, they may or may not have been having a staring contest with the barrel of a gun…

    Whatever, the point is you looked rather roughed-up. But it didn’t really matter: there were trees that needed harvesting. Tying your hair back in a sloppy pony-tail, you flung your screen door open and strode into the fields, a basket of tools at your side.

    “Graaaaaciiie~ Gracie, where are you?” Weaving through the truffula plants, you called the name of your little pet bar-ba-loot. Originally, you had purchased her to chase away the sneeches that threatened your land (Those darned cretins haven’t left yet!), but as the years went by, you grew more and more attached to the little fuzz ball. She was usually out roaming the meadows and wreaking havoc at the crack of dawn, so it was only natural for her to be out.

    But she didn’t respond. No call or anything. Thinking she was probably out messing with the humming-fish again, you decided to tend to the other trees. She’d turn up sooner or later anyway, no need to stress about it.

    Every harvest began the same way. Kneeling down at the foot of the tree in an almost reverent manner, you grazed your fingertips against the colorful stripes on the bark, examining the rings with trained eyes. This was the farm’s oldest tree, standing tall and mighty at the center of the lot. This one was special; a trooper, the first ever planted on tilled soil. As ridiculous as it sounds, you had come to believe that this tree carried itself a little different than the little scamps surrounding it. It was dignified—classy, even—never slouching, and always with a new, soft, and fluffy mane.

    A mane ready to harvest. Reaching into your bag, you retrieved your supplies: gloves, and a good pair of hedge clippers. Slipping on your plastic pair of hands, you snipped away at the tufts of truffula fuzz, careful to catch the tufts in the basket. You couldn't help but grin like a doofus as the job progressed.  

    Now, every worker worth their salt has a fair share of tricks up their sleeves, and you are definitely not the average worker. Truffula tufts could be used for more than just knitting itchy sweaters for the holidays—much, much more. With this knowledge, you could hardly wait to unleash a new-fangled beast on a world of unsuspecting customers. Just the thought of the changes it would make brought a smile to your face. By the time all the tufts were completely removed, a skinny, bare truffula was left in place of the formerly shaggy truffula tree.

    Just as you were moving on to your next victim, Gracie bounded up to you, yipping like mad. Lowering the clippers, you met her halfway, petting her head comfortingly.

    “What’s wrong, girl?” Eyes like saucers, Gracie shook violently, clinging onto your leg. The look she was giving suggested that something was out there just wasn't right, and whatever it was, it scared the hairs off of the poor little bar-ba-loot. Bundling the creature up in your arms, you made your way toward the direction Gracie had come from. Anything that could scare your little pal had to go.

    You had to go down a hill, to the very edge of your property. With mild irritation, you took note of just how fogged up your specs got as your descent continued. The heavy stench of smog permeated your clothes and lungs, feeling like it was trying to infiltrate your body through your pores. What do you have to burn to make it smell this appalling? You soon approached a large, gas-guzzling super truck, a hat-clad man sitting cross-legged beside it. Any other day, it would have been semi-normal. This was no ordinary man, however.

    Along with his fashionable magician’s hat, he wore a green, pinstriped suit with matching gloves, as well as a rather expensive-looking pair of boots, much more pricey than yours. He also had this silky, ebony hair that fell freely over his eyes, which were a bright green as well. He wore a down-in-the-dumps frown, but judging by his tell-tale laugh lines, you knew this was not his norm. All around, he was quite the looker.

    As you stepped closer to him, Gracie began to squirm, pure terror evident in her eyes. With much protest, she finally sprung from your arms, running towards the safety of our home. The fancy stranger looked up at you, eyes half lidded and bloodshot, as if he had sat there crying all night long. Maybe not even crying, you’re mind pondered, just watching…thinking. When you walked into his field of vision, he quickly stood to his feet and proceeded/attempted to dust himself off, a feat rather hard to accomplish on a mucky dirt road.

    You crossed your arms and held your chin up high, trying and failing to make yourself look more intimidating. Handsome or not, this guy had freaked out your buddy, and that’s a no-no No. 1.

    “Hola, Mister Grinch,” you began, taking a few somewhat confident steps forward. “You may not have noticed, but you kinda spooked my little friend back there, so I had to come check you out…I-I don’t mean that in, like, a pervy way or anything, I-I mean…” you awkwardly trailed off, feeling the confidence in your step be replaced by the warmth in your cheeks and the sputtering of your tongue.

    The man chuckled, though the subtle shake of his shoulders looked more defeated and bitter than it sounded. Finally, you found the right question to ask.

    “Who are you, and what are you doing on my farm?”

    The traces of a smirk grew on his features as he brought his oh-so-mysterious hat down to his chest and bowed lowly. Taking your (s/c) hand in his ornately gloved one, he kissed it, not breaking your intense gaze.

    “They call me The Onceler.”

    ~O~

    After that…interesting introduction, you disregarded all of the basic rules passed down from generation to generation and invaded a stranger into your home for a nice chat over hot cocoa. As you rifled through your cupboards for clean china, he sat in a wicker chair beside a window. His eyes swept the house a few times, but they always landed on the window, staring at the gently swaying truffulas outside.

    Balancing two cups of hot chocolate on a dinged-up platter, you took a seat across from him, handing him his beverage. He muttered a quiet thanks and looked back to the trees, only stopping to take a sip every few seconds. Now that you could really look at him, you saw that compared to his bolder-than-bold display outside, he truly looked deflated in that chair, shriveled up and silent. He had all but invited himself in, and yet no words were said on his part for quite a while.

    “Well, Oncie,” he visibly choked on his cocoa at the spontaneous nickname, “what brings you to my neck of the woods?” He brought his hands atop the table, twiddling his thumbs and making that depressed frown again.

    “Nothing too major. Just realizing how much I screwed up the lives of millions,” he sighed. Ouch. Sounds like whatever this guy did really sucked. Despite your desire to laugh off his misfortune, your maternal instincts kicked in.

    Leaning toward him slightly, YOU tried to look into his bright eyes and smiled. “C’mon, dude. I’m sure whatever you’ve been through isn’t that bad, and even if it is, all you gotta do is move on: I’m sure someone’s done something way worse in the past anyway.”

    What you intended to be an eye-opening moment went unnoticed as he shook his head slowly. If his sorrow had been a knife, I just twisted it in further. All of your reasoning was abolished with these four words:

    “I killed the trees.”

    Woah. To think that the mass tree-murderer that I’d heard so much about the past year was sitting a mere five feet away from me…Suddenly, it clicked. What that farmer had been telling me about…this was the infamous ‘man in green’? It was kinda hard to see, to be honest. The kid looked like a choir boy in a green suit: how could someone who looked so innocent have done something so sinister? Don’t judge a book by its cover, your mind chided.

    “I was a dreamer with the best of them,” he continued, eyes glued to the window, “an inventor, an innovator ready to take the world by storm. I wanted to make something that everyone on earth could use: the thneed. It really is quite remarkable, if I do say so myself. The only problem is…it needs truffula tufts to be made.”

    He then continued to tell me about the Lorax and the entire UNLESS predicament. You listened to him carefully, nodding and occasionally putting in your own two cents. To think that all of this had happened to him, yet he’s been left so clueless…it was truly devastating.

    “I’ve done all of this…these truly evil deeds, and have nothing to show for it. I’ve poisoned the world and don’t know the antidote… I don’t know what to do anymore,” he confided. The room felt heavy and dull after that, the only audible sound being the steady clicking of the clock and your own heartbeat. Man, this was turning into a pity party…

    The Onceler’s frown turned upward a bit as he changed the conversation. “I see you’re a tree farmer. It’s a wonder you haven’t gone out of business like the others,” he said looking again at the truffulas contorting slightly in the wind.

    YOU couldn’t help but puff your chest out in pride. “Me? Go out of business? Puh-lease! It’s because I do things a whole lot differently than those other chumps!” A small smile graced the Onceler’s lips. It was the first time I’d had his undivided attention all morning. “Really? How’s that?” The question came off as a jest, but the subtle undertone of genuine curiosity shined through.

    “Truffula trees are used for their bark as well as their tufts: everyone knows that. But there are already so many people that use bark it’s like beating a dead horse. We use’em in chairs, tables, houses, pencils—even in some dentures!” you gestured to your house throughout the rant, to which he nodded his assent.

    “The one thing that people often forget about is the tufts, and then they just have a whole bunch of tree stumps and furniture. What I do is grow the trees and—check this—harvest the tufts! It doesn’t kill the trees, which means a butt-load of fresh air, and materials that can be crafted into virtually anything!”

    The Onceler’s eyes widened considerably at your explanation, but his expression soon returned to normal. With a final glance out the window, he stood, thanked me for the drink, and walked out the front door.

    Wait, what?

    You remained in your seat for a minute, still staring at the seat he had been occupying just seconds ago. In all honesty, you didn’t know just how to feel. You were upset that the blockhead just up and left after being told there may be a way to reverse his curse, and yet the thought of a person (i.e. social activity you hadn’t felt in ages) just waltzing out the door forever drowned your fiery rage in sorrow. He didn’t have to go through all of this, at least not alone. If he had just figured out how to harvest.

If only...If only I had met you before….

    Your train of thought was interrupted by an ear-splitting shriek from the valley. Grabbing a coat, you dashed out the front door, following the sounds of what you guessed was a woman’s call for help. Coming to where the Onceler’s truck was parked, YOU saw something that made me want to laugh hysterically and piss yourself at the same time:

    Gracie’s 300-or-so-pound father was sitting in the driver’s seat—his mouth is full of marshmallows, mind you—and he was swiping and growling playfully at the Onceler, who had his butt stuck in the truck’s window…How and why?

    It took all of your strength not to keel over in laughter. Putting on your game face, you knew you had to calm down the bar-ba-loot before you even thought about addressing the main issue. Making small, quiet steps, you made your way over to the beast, softly stroking his mangy fur.

    “Hey there, big guy! Long time, no see,” you cooed, to which he nodded amiably. “Say, you think you could get outta our new pal’s truck? He’s a bit of a knucklehead, but I think he’s had a rough enough day as it is.”

    The bulky bar-ba-loot stared at me blankly for a second, then looked to a frantically-squirming Onceler, giggled, and got out of the truck, the contraption screeching and groaning as it resettled. He landed on the ground with a thump, gave me one last knowing glance, and waddled his way back into the forest. Great, one job down, one left to go: pull The Onceler out of the open truck window. The real question is this: which side do I pull?

    Uh-oh. It looked like you had a couple of options:

    1. Pull him by the hindquarters. You’d get the best grip there, and dang, what a view!

    2. Pull him by his arms. It could work, but you might dislocate his shoulders.

    3. Pull him by his calves. It would definitely work, but he’d probably end up sitting on you when he got free…totally not kosher.

    It seemed like choice one was the most probable. A light blush coloring your cheeks, you came up behind him.

    “H-Hey, dude. I’m normally not the type to cop a feel on the first date, but I need you to work with me. Just…stay put, all right?” He obeyed your wish, going borderline limp per your request. Taking a deep breath, your seized him by his narrow hips and pulled. Looking back, your hands probably shook like leaves as you heaved him through. When the truck door finally gave, The Onceler flew backwards into your lap, and boy, was he a sight.

    His formerly spiffy and pristine suit was sullied and disheveled, along with his hair and practically everything else on him. When he realized how close he was to me, he immediately scooted a few feet away, his breaths irregular and his face beet-red. Then again, he might’ve just been mirroring your actions.

    “T-Thanks…”he said, trying to compose himself enough to stand to his feet. You snapped yourself out of infatuation mode and stood, offering him a hand. “The name’s ________,” you said with a genuine smile. Blinking rapidly, as if to snap himself out of a trance of his own, he took your hand and pulled himself to his feet. If you heard correctly, he repeated your name under his breath, as if to remember it. Like it was of importance.

    Clearing your throat, you turned to him, realizing what he had intended to do when he got in the truck in the first place: Leave.

    “So…where’re you headed?” You asked, thinly-veiled disappointment in your voice. “I don’t know, really,” he answered truthfully, looking to the truck’s large wheels. “I just really… don’t know anymore.”

    “I don’t think I can call what I came from a home, and I’d rather die than go back to my mother’s.” Huh. Family issues. Can’t fight with that logic.

    You looked down, suddenly very intrigued with the rocks embedded in the soil. C’mon, ______! It’s now or never! Biting your lip, you turned to The Onceler. “H-Hey, if you don’t have a place to crash, you could always…y’know…crash at my place?” It came out more of a question than a proposition, and you were about ready to explode. Really? I’m that bad at human interaction?

    You quickly spit out some apologies and ‘if you don’t want tos’ and all that great stuff, when this guy starts laughing at you. This one isn’t bitter or crestfallen like the others; it was a warm, tinkling laugh that made me want huggle him to oblivion. He’s so gosh-darn cute!

    “You’ll really let me stay?” he said, a hint of hope in his voice. You nodded happily. He smiled his heartwarming smile and enveloped you into a hug. After a few seconds of the warm embrace, however, it did what all great things do in life, which is get really freaking awkward and end abruptly.    

    “Thank you so much for this, _________. It really means a lot to me.”

                                                               

    “Don’t thank me yet, bud: you’re not going to be some under my roof. I see many harvesting lessons in your future,” you replied. Together, you two walked back toward the house, forging a friendship that will continue to grow as the days pass.

[EDIT 12/11/14]

Dear God, it's been a while since I've read through any of my stuff and let me tell you, this had me cringing all night long. I'm going to continue this series, but I wanted to correct all of my grammatical mistakes from way back when first so I can focus on newer content.

I also decided halfway through revising to switch from first to second person. You dig? I don't know if I dig...not yet, at least.

Stay beautiful, my friends~
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