The Lonely Shepherd

The Lonely Shepherd

March 3rd

The morning air was crisp today, and I watched the sun rise over the horizon, casting a dim, reddish glow over the pasture. My sheep, all twenty-three of them, were scattered across the field, grazing lazily as I tended to the irrigation lines. There is something comforting in the routine—feeding them, watching Sabiha run along the edges, keeping everything in order. Every day feels the same, and that sameness is a blessing. If I can keep the sheep healthy, keep the grass growing, then everything will be alright.

March 5th

The sky was a steady, dim red today. I spent most of the morning checking the pasture, making sure the irrigation channels were flowing properly. The sheep need fresh water, and the grass needs careful attention if it is to keep growing. Sabiha was restless, barking at something near the edge of the field. I couldn’t see anything wrong, but I trust her instincts. She’s a good dog—always vigilant, always there.

March 8th

There was something different today. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there was a strange stillness in the air. The sheep seemed uneasy, moving closer together and bleating softly. I spent extra time with them, stroking their wool and speaking to them in low tones until they settled down. It’s these moments—these small, mundane moments—that help me feel connected, that help me remember why I do this. The fields, the sheep—they’re all part of something larger, something I need to protect.

March 11th

I caught sight of something strange today. The sky seemed darker, a deeper red than usual, almost as if a storm was approaching. The sheep stayed close, and Sabiha kept her distance, her ears perked. It’s strange, this feeling that something is shifting. I tried to ignore it and focus on the tasks at hand, feeding the sheep and tending to the grass, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that something is not quite right.

March 13th

The air felt heavy today, and the sheep were restless again. I stayed close to them, moving through the field and watching Sabiha pace along the edges. There is a comfort in keeping busy, in focusing on the small things that need to be done. I weeded around the edges of the pasture, making sure the grass had room to grow. Sabiha seemed agitated, but I did my best to calm her. I talked to the sheep today. I sometimes do that, to make the solitude less oppressing. They stayed close when I spoke, maybe they liked the sound of my voice. One of them, in particular, looked me right in the eye, almost as if it understood. I wonder if she feels it too—that sense that something is changing, something beyond my control.

March 15th

This morning, I milked one of the sheep, just like I do every day. I had to be careful, moving slowly, making sure not to spill any of the milk. Each sheep gives about two liters of milk each month, and with only twenty-three of them, every drop matters. I need about two litres a day to get by, but not enough sheep survived, and sometimes the sheep don’t produce enough, and I end up hungry. It’s hard, but I keep hoping that if I tend to the irrigation system well enough, the sheep will stay healthy, and they’ll keep giving me what I need.

March 17th

I spent the day working on the irrigation lines again. The grass has been slow to grow lately, and I worry that something might be wrong with the soil. I can’t afford any failures—not now, not with everything depending on this place. A failure in the irrigation system could be the death of us all. The sheep gathered near me as I worked, their eyes following my every move. Sometimes I think they know more than they let on. Sabiha stayed close, her presence grounding me. The sky outside was dark again, that deeper red that makes me think of storms.

March 18th

A small patch of grass dried out today, and I could feel the panic rising in my chest. I can't afford to lose even a tiny part of the pasture. If the grass stops growing, the sheep will have nothing to graze on, and that could be the end of everything. I dug out the bad soil as quickly and carefully as I could, replacing it with fresh earth from storage. I watered the area and tried to flatten it down, hoping it would take root and grow again. I can't let this place fall apart—not now, not when everything depends on it.

March 19th

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. The air feels heavy, and there’s a strange vibration in the ground, like a hum that I can’t quite hear but can feel in my bones. The pasture is my world—my fields, my flock. But I know, deep down, that none of it is real. The sheep, the grass, even Sabiha—they are all part of something I’ve created, a story I tell myself to keep going. I feed them, I tend to them, but it’s me who needs them. It’s me who needs the routine, the illusion of purpose.

March 20th

I looked up at the sky today and realized how small my world truly is. The red sky, this pasture—it’s all I have. I am the last one here. The others are gone, and I am left alone with my flock, my fields, my routine. The pasture is just a part of the greenhouse, a closed system, carefully constructed to keep me alive. The sheep are not real—they are something else, something designed to maintain this illusion. The fields are just patches of controlled earth, and beyond them, there is only the barren, empty landscape.

March 23rd

Mars. I chose not to write about it, but sometimes the loneliness gets the better of me. The sky is red because this is Mars, but I need to pretend otherwise. The pasture, the hills, the sheep—all part of the greenhouse, all part of the illusion I created to survive. The sheep are white robots, built to graze on the artificial grass and produce milk to sustain me. They need the grass to function, just as I need their milk to survive. I am the only one left, the last survivor of a failed mission, clinging to the fragments of a life that no longer exists. I adopted the shepherd persona because I had to—because the alternative was too much to bear. If I wrote about Mars, if I faced the reality, I would lose my grip. The sheep, the fields, the routine—they are my way of coping, my way of pretending that I am not alone on this desolate planet. And maybe, in the end, that’s enough until the next supply ship arrives and rescues me. At least, I have to believe it will.