family
Memories
I shouldn’t have been out there. I don’t know how many times I had heard my father telling me to stay out of the old barn that sat a few acres back from our house, a part of the old farm that had once sat on the property. He’d explained it was dilapidated and needed to be torn down, he’d just never gotten around to it after living there for thirty-five years, and I had always thought that strange.
By Mackenzie Harris5 years ago in Fiction
In the Rafters
There were no pigeons in the rafters today. Odd, with the rain outside. Where were they? They shouldn't fly in this weather. The rain would make their feathers heavy and make it difficult to see. Pigeons can't have very good eyesight. Very inefficient. They must be resting somewhere else today. Why? What was wrong with my barn? I keep it much cleaner now than before. The rafters are high and stable, with absolutely no splinters. I made sure. I almost broke my wrist getting rid of them. I have a doctor, though, and I don't need to use my wrist to hold onto telephone wires or branches like they do. Plus, I've practiced always catching myself with my left hand so that I can still hold a fork if I'm injured. I would have been fine. The pigeons don't have any health insurance.
By Amelia Grace Newell5 years ago in Fiction
Lingering Memories
So many years have passed since I’ve been here. I look around the old farm, decades of history packed into a couple of hundred square acres. Unfortunately, it’s been long abandoned, and nothing remains but ash, dust, and what I imagine would be the smell of death.
By Antonio Obi-wan Abinadi Flores5 years ago in Fiction
My Brother
It wasn’t eight in the morning and the kitchen was already hot, sticky, and miserable when I walked in. Texas weather was never what you wanted it to be, but in August it was the worst. My Aunt Helen was standing in a thin yellow sundress in front of the oven, sweating, and waiting for what smelled like biscuits to finish. She turned and looked at me and smiled.
By Roland Snider5 years ago in Fiction
Nathaniel's Regret
Cold October sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the boards in the side of the barn. Nathaniel took a bite from an apple he’d picked from one of the trees outside as he watched his father, Deke, finishing the work for the day. The large nails in the beams overhead were handmade, which placed the construction of the barn sometime in the early eighteen hundreds according to Deke. Nathaniel liked being inside its old walls. The aged, musty smell of ancient wood underlay the fresher, cleaner smell of new sawdust. The gaps in the floorboards were enough to allow the dust to sift through to the ground beneath without the need for a dustpan, and since he usually did the sweeping for his father, Nathaniel appreciated that. Today Deke was carefully sanding the arms of a wooden rocking chair for the third time with the finest grain of sandpaper, which was barely rougher than a piece of cardboard so far as Nathaniel could tell. When Deke determined that the sanding was done, they would go on their evening walk.
By Jackson Eaton5 years ago in Fiction
Grandpa's Barn
The little boy bit his lip as he gazed up at the picture. "Grandpa, whose barn is that?" All of the other pictures were of well known faces- there was his mom and dad, and there was one of him and his little sister. There was Uncle Bro and his family, and one of Grandpa with the Grandma the little boy had never gotten the chance to know. But he didn't know that barn. It looked like an old tired place. It didn't seem to fit with the smiling faces.
By Katie Lynn5 years ago in Fiction
A While Longer
My favorite part about summer is visiting the coast. It’s so old-timey. We get to visit a part of the world that’s been swallowed up and spit out so many times that the hard rock has turned into soft sand. Daddy says it’s silly to romanticize erosion, but I think we’re like those rocks. We change over time.
By Alyssa DeMoss5 years ago in Fiction
