This is my response to The Barn exercise, a writing prompt recommended by Greg Buchanan:
- Describe a barn from the point of view of a farmer standing inside it.
- The farmer has just opened and read a letter telling him his son has died at war.
- You are not allowed to mention the letter, the son, the war, or that someone close to the farmer has died.
- Your description from the farmer’s POV should be around 100-300 words.
A beam of evening sunlight catches dust motes above the straw, and I notice a tuft of coarse hair on the side of the pen, a last gift from one of the pigs. I rest my eyes. There’s a small boy before me, pointing out the runt of that year’s litter. The memory feels so distant it might have been borrowed from someone else.
It’s been so quiet lately.
Through the barn door I can see what remains of Thousand Acre Farm to the west, now flattened to stubs of stone and wire after the raid in June. We used to call it Thousand Yard Stare because of the eyes painted on the side of the granary, something Jemima did before my time. To ward off evil.
The pair of hide boots by the door seem to glow at dusk. They’ve been polished every day, awaiting their owner. Until an hour ago that seemed like a good idea. Now I wonder if I condemned Uther’s boy to trench foot for no good reason after he begged to borrow them last winter.
The pigs are gone, but I can still smell them. They trotted obediently into the van, that summer day, just before the bombs hit. It was a mercy, really, to be consumed.
It’s been so quiet lately.
Florence Smith Nicholls 