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Deb Howell, 02 Feb '13

That barn. Shaded by the canopy of the silver dollar tree. I can already feel the tremours starting. Ben and Jimmy skip through the tussock ahead, but I'm frozen, my head filled with the hiss of wind-swept grasses. And memories. The only cheery thing here is the trill of a tui. That old barn, its roof painted red some time since, just sits, taunting.
I shouldn't feel afraid. I'm older now, and I'm here with friends.
The whistle of wood pigeon wings above has me just about turning and fleeing for home, but Jimmy beckons me on with a shrill summons and a wave of his hand before folding himself through the small opening left by the door barely hanging by a single hinge. Ben is already inside.
That barn. Rotten planks littering the base of its walls, long grass sprouting between them.
I take a breath, force myself to relax. Come on feet. It can't happen again.

Comments · 1

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  • Deb Howell said...

    An exercise for my local Writers' Workshop. I won't tell you what the prompt was just yet, perhaps down the track I may... Let me know what you think is going on (o:

    • Posted 4 years ago