Barn | Jenny Sorensen

It's red. Red like the red I dream about lately. Do people hide in it, or are there just animals inside? People could hide in it. It's big enough. I wonder if my child hid in one? It seems lonely, standing out in the middle of this green field. I feel that way. I'm lonely. A piece of me seems to be missing like the animals that should be in that big, red barn.

Barn | Elyse Georgeson

It was almost as if I could see them again, mucking out the barn together. But it was only my old eyes playing tricks on me. No more would I see either of them out there, taking care of the animals, or going out on horseback to “check the fences.” As much as I could wish them back again, they won’t come back.

I had paused in my packing, to look out the window. I shouldn’t have done that. Now I have to get out a tissue and wipe my eyes before I can resume. I don’t want to leave this place where I raised my family. But I have no choice. My daughters all married and live far away. Our son, who was supposed to take care of the farm, is no longer able to do so. If that weren’t enough, the day the news of my son came my husband had a heart attack. I have no one here now to take care of, or to take care of me.

The barn seems like it’s sharing in my grief. The paint is peeling—it no longer looks cheery and useful. The paint is peeling; it’s been so long since we’ve been able to paint it. It doesn’t matter now. All the animals are gone; I had to sell them to move to my daughter’s house, several miles away. The only things left inside that barn are a few old bits of leather, besides all the straw for the stalls. After so many years of hearing the nickers, the moos, the baas, and the clucking from the animals, it’s so quiet. All I can hear now is the wind whispering through the cracks in the barn. It’s a lonely, mourning sound.

I must get back to packing. I don’t have much more to do. Just a few last photos and other odd knickknacks, and I’m ready. Though I won’t ever be ready to leave my home.

Barn | D. Beth McGraw

He leaned on his pitchfork and gazed up at the ceiling. The sunlight filtered in through an opening in the loft and he could see dust swirling slowly around as it fell to the ground. Everything here seemed so peaceful. In his mind he could almost hear the children laughing and yelling as they played their games in the big, red bard and around the yard. Those were good times, he thought to himself. It was so long ago, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since those golden days of catch the flag and hide and go seek.

There had come a day that he would never forget. The telephone in the hallway ringing,and his wife callapsing into a chair with her hands over her face. The days following that were a blur. He remembered the mohagany wood gleaming beautifully in the sunlight as friends and family hugged his wife nad shook his hand. He had sat in his truck holding that folded flag tightly against him trying to sort out all the thoughts going through his mind.

He slowly turned the latch to the door of the old barn. The building was badly in need of painting. He could no longer do it himself and there was no one to help him, soon he knew would come more changes. He thought of all the memories connected with this old barn and couldn't help but smile as he turned and walked back into the house.

Barn | Jillene Stark

I was walking down the road and the air was cold and cruel. I had tears in my eyes and all I could think of was pain. The wind blew into my eyes as it starts to sting. I want to go home but every time I go home there is too much memory tied into that place that used to be my sanctuary. I felt lost and helpless.

At the end of the road there was a barn and the sun must have been shinning on it perfectly because it looked beautiful. The wood was new and just redone, it had just been painted and was a deep color of red with white strips covering it. The red seemed so much darker because it was starting to become later in the day. It brought peace in my soul because it was something that was stable and wouldn't be brought down; I wanted to be as big and strong as this barn. I saw children running around playing in and out of the barn. It brought a sense of joy that I hadn't felt for weeks. Was I ready for this joy? I saw a little boy playing on the door smiling like nothing else could bother him at that moment. I decided to join that boy and not let anything bother me for a moment before I went back to the one place that would hopefully soon be my sanctuary once more.

Barn | Shannon Eberhard

Moonlight shone through the loft window, illuminating the dilapidated interior, where glimmering sheets of frost hinted at the raw wooden surfaces they covered in the sharp cold air. Sitting in the center on a wooden crate, was an old man. “This barn could no longer hold life”, he thought.” It was too old; the roof might just cave in any moment”. He sat a long time, watching his breath take solid form one cloud after another. He sat and waited for a distraction, a sign. The wind was dead, and the snow smothered any sound into a stifled murmur. Was this it? Was this the sign he’d been looking for? Emptiness or simply dark beauty?
He remembered building this barn, the planks still oozing with life and the scent of Christmas. When it was finished, the setting sun made the wood’s golden grain appear illuminated. It served its purpose for years, insulated with golden hay; it protected the lumbering life and grain inside, while, at times, its shell was half covered by snow. That is, until the roof caved in. One winter the snow was just too much. All the animals had to be slaughtered, the grain sold. There were no where else to put them. “Me and this barn are one and the same,” he thought .”
And then he wept.

Barn| Karalee Dearden

I stare longingly at the old red barn off in the distance. The paint is peeling, the doors no longer close right, and animals have not lived in it for many years. But it is full of memories. Memories of a small boy watching his father milk the cows, or climbing to the loft and laying in the hay, telling me of his day at school. Memories of that same boy sneaking out to the barn to try his first cigarrette, or to kiss a girl for the first time.

These are the happy memories I have of this barn. They are far from the troubling thoughts and memories I now carry with me. Now, I think of the carefully folded triangle of fabric they gave me. And everything about that barn reminds me. The lingering scent of hay in the loft, the peeling paint, the broken doors. They all scream that things will never be the same again. So I stay in the house, and save the repairs for another day.

Barn| Raymond Wadsworth

He looked out the window and saw the old barn standing there in the bright moonlight. Its paint was peeling off and some of the boards were warped. He remembered how they had planned to fix it up and build a small room up in the loft for when he would come home with his family. They didn't quite know how they were going to do the plumbing for the toilet and spa, but they still had time to figure it out, or so he thought. He took a walk over to the barn passing the small pond and remembering when he caught his first fish. "It's a big one isn't it?" It seemed like such a long time ago but he remembered it as if it was yesterday.

The 1966 Corvet was sitting inside the door when he opened it. They had started to restore it and it needed a lot of work. He sat down on the old tool table they had made together. He was a carpenter and mechanic and was good at his job. The memories came flooding in from the scent of the saw dust. "This half needs to be sanded a little more and it'll be perfect," were the words that rang in his head. He began to cry and couldn't stop. He had to let go, but how? He looked up and saw a set of wrenches. He would finish restoring the car because he would have wanted him to.

Barn | Brittany Hoffman

The air was thick and sticky and she wondered again why she had come. She should be home, but everyone told her it was a good idea to get out of the house, so there she was. Her shirt clung to her back as she pealed her self away from the leather intearior of her dodge stratus. Her useless car with the worthless radio and even more worthless air conditioning that could have been very useful today.

She walked down the gravel path and as she climed the familiar slope, her sneakers found their place on the trail she knew so well. Finally reaching the top of the hill, she looked across the valley and took a deep breath of the sticky morning air once again as her eyes scanned the scene. She took a pause to look around at the blossoming springtime trees and to listen to the happy churping birds that seemed to be all around her. Inside she knew she should enjoy this beautiful scene, but her heart felt bitter that the world always got to start over.

It felt like months since she has been here, when it was only last week. Things change so quickly. She started on the regular trail at a steady jogging pace concentrating on the music coming from her ear buds to give her the rythem and also something to get her mind off her regular thoughts. Whenever her thoughts started to stray, she blamed the music and, frustrated, she would press the buttons on her iPod to change the song thinking that maybe this song wouldn't bring back memories.

She turned a bend and saw the last thing she wanted to see. With only a few more steps, she lost her control. Her feet stopped, and, in almost reverance, she turned off her music and walked slowly off the trail as the tears started to fall. This was always his favorite bit of this trail, she thought to herself as she hopped over the rotting fence. Looking upward at the large structure, she stood in silent tears with no thoughts but ache.

The barn had been painted since she was last here and the new vibrant red gave here a headache, thinking that everything, except her, was given a second chance. Staring at the beautiful wood and the enormous doors carved with pride, she admired the workmanship, but these thoughts only led to anger and bitter hate.

Pacing around the structure with its brand new springtime look, all she could think of was a random memory of her son from so many years ago. A brand new teenager, he had fallen in love with a girl. He told her all about this love and how she didnt return the feelings. Looking up at her with wet eyes, all he could say was, "It's so hard to have someone to love." Smiling at the memory, the tears still fell, but a peace came over her knowing that this wasnt how he would have wanted it.

So how she understood, she thought, and softly told the red barn, "Its going to be okay cus I understand now that its hard to have someone to love, but it is never not worth it."

Barn | Matt Nielsen

"Wow" thought the old man as he crested the hillside. He knew that the site wasn't going to be pretty, even after all of these years. The building was little more than 4 crumbling wooden walls around a crater. All of the destruction was already being overgrown with the native weeds and brush. A few more years and there would be nothing left to see. The old man turned to his interpreter and commented that it was a good thing he came when he did. The interpreter spoke to their guide in his native german and they all 3 shared a smile. Time had healed the rift between them somewhat, and the old man could truly feel the sorrow coming from his guide over what had happened.

"I can see why he would have taken refuge here" said the old man. The coutryside was truly beautiful, and reminded him of the rolling hills and old barns that dotted it in his home country. "He would have felt comfortable and safe in this place." As they closed the gap between them and the barn the old man wept. At last he had made it. At last he would have some closure.

Barn | Chelsea Trump

She walked along a dusty path and a weed stuck in her long skirts. She bent down to untangle the weed and when she straightened, the old family barn stood in front of her. The suddeness of this lonely structure looming above the woman shocked her. She had been staring at her scuffed black boots and hadn't even realized where they were taking her.

The woman took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The old weathered wood squeaked on its hinges. Inside, the barn was musty and a few hay bales were still stacked in the back corner.

Memories began creeping into the woman's head, but one in particular stood out. He was ten and had stolen his father's gun. He had shot a bird in this barn. When it fell to the ground, he scooped it up and ran to his mother. She had to tell him that she couldn't fix it. Through the kitchen window, she watched him bury it. It was the only time she remembered seeing him cry.

Standing in the middle of the barn, she heard planes flying overhead and explosions in the distance. The swirling vortex of a chaotic world had all ready forgotten him, but she was stuck in the center and felt the dead calm all around. She would never forget.

Barn | Sarah Gibbs

The children stood in the loft of the bright sunny barn. The air was filled with their laughter and shrieks. Fresh clean hay covered the compacted dirt floor and the musty smell of cows mingled with the scent. Sunlight poured in the west window in the late afternoon striping the loft and the children’s legs.

Walt Smith watched them play as he cleaned out the cow pens. They were swinging from the loft on a thick frayed rope to the tall soft straw pile piled near the open door. He grinned at his own memories of swinging from the very spot many a time as a child. He looked down and continued his work.

Suddenly the screams became not those of play, but the terrified screams of a frightened child. Walt whirled around and his eyes shot upwards just in time to see his son James, his precious only child, tumble head over heal from the loft. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he lunged across the barn. A slow shout escaped his lips and echoed through the vastness. James’ head and shoulders struck the ground a few moments before Walt could reach him.

Panting Walt sat straight up in bed. He looked wildly around and tried to regain his composure. After a few panicked moments he swung his legs of the side of his bed and flipped on the bedside lamp. From a beneath his bed he pulled a box. Reaching inside he removed a small black box and a folded American flag. Slowly he opened the box and turned over the Purple Heart. He let his gnarled finger trace slowly the words, James Walter Smith. It was a long time before Walt could return to sleep.

Barn | Tyler Cook

The seat to his ‘55 had never been very comfortable, but at times it seemed his only refuge. It was a beat up old truck, but it ran. Quickly he wiped away a tear, leather hands scratching his skin. The sun was just starting to rise as he stared out the window in silence, watching the golden light break over the hills. Even out here he was afraid to cry, afraid that he might lose composer. He had to be strong. Someone had too. It certainly wasn’t going to be his wife.

Pushing open the door, the old rancher stepped from his truck, the mud cracking on his weathered boots as they touched the ground. He shuffled off toward the barn, breathing in the crisp morning air. He wanted to cry. He wanted to fall to his knees and scream at the top of his lungs, but he wouldn’t. Angrily, he fought to subdue the pressure in his eyes.

The barn was plain, and ugly, but then it never needed to be more than functional. He had never painted it, never had it varnished. It looked very old now, and gray. The sealant had worn off, leaving the boards unprotected to the morning dampness. It would rot if he wasn’t careful. Slowly, he stepped inside, the strong musty smell of the alfalfa enveloping him in the darkness. Then, pulling the leather gloves from the back pocket of his jeans and fitting them snuggly to his hands, the old rancher reached out for the closet bale of hay. He heaved it to his waist with a mighty jerk, and started to turn back to his truck. He stopped. Something had fallen to the ground. A baseball, he noticed, almost instantly. Scuffed and well used. The red stitch work was frayed in places and the leather was pealing back. He smiled just a little, and returned to his truck, lugging the bale of hay. He had to feed the cows.

Barn | Cassidy Berlin

I can see my breath in the chilling air as I sit on our front porch. I breath in heavily, hold it and then exhale, letting my chest fall towards the ground. For what seems like ages I finally lift the weight of my head up and slide my hands down my face until they are propped underneath my chin. Still, I watch the clouds my breath forms as it exits through my cold purple lips. Through the morning fog I can see our barn in the distance. I feel as though I almost have to squint in order to see it. I feel as though I am miles away from this barn covered in red paint. Paint that used to shine in the afternoon sun but lately it’s only been rained upon. And even though it’s so far away I can smell the soggy layers of paint practically sliding off the surface.

I stand up and start walking towards the barn. The more I walk the further it seems to be, as if the barn is fading away or even pulling away from me. Frustrated I start to run and then sprint until I’m finally standing right in front of it. I gasp for air as I set my hand against the wet layers of paint to prop my body up while I try to regain my strength. As I pull away the red paint is smothered all over the inside of my right hand. It starts to drip down my arm and I watch this paint run like water until it hits my elbow and falls off in tiny droplets.

I look up at the barn, although it feels as though I am looking down on it. When did everything start to feel so small? When did everything start to lose its color? It’s as if the rain has washed all that was once vibrant and bright away. Or maybe my tears have swept away all the beauty that my eyes once saw. Robbing me of what is real in life, making my senses feel numb. I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing the warm tears that instantly turn cold as they fall down my face. I imagine this barn how it used to be, beautiful and strong. I imagine a warm day with bright blue skies that add contrast to the smooth shiny red paint. If I can not open my eyes to these sights then I pray that I might someday see them again in my dreams.

Barn | Katherine Nielson

Paul was lost, lost into the world of work that he always ran to. This time he had gone there on purpose. He swung the axe and felt the stinging impact on his palms. He embraced the feeling. It gave him purpose, something he had lost. There was more than enough wood for the month, perhaps enough for the winter, but he continued to chop. He stacked all around the house.

He heard Miriam calling and paused, leaning heavily on the axe. His arms suddenly felt tired. His soul felt tired. The barn loomed before him. It needed new varnish. The hay could be refreshed, and the cow needed to be milked. Kyle would do that. Kyle. Kyle wouldn’t do that.

Paul turned the tide of his thoughts back to the work that needed to be done near the barn. He studied the floor. There were a few loose boards. He would fix that later, also the leak in the roof. That could be done later. The sun streamed through the boards of the barn illuminating the floorboards. Paul shook his head. There was work to do. He lifted the axe and began his rhythmic ritual, trying to forget. To forget.

Barn | Heather Zundel

The fence leaned, old posts sagged from their long vigil upon the empty landscape. Tufts of yellowed grass choked around the poles, while weeds of faded green occupied what little space could be had. An older man walked through the fields of gold and abandoned barely - not old because of his age, he was not yet past his prime, old because of the way he carried himself. It was as if every step bore the weight of the world upon him – Atlas himself, stumbling, but with every footstep tried to hide his burden.

It was beautiful, he decided. Barren, yes, desolate even, but it was the quiet solace he sought and he thought he could hear whispers through the barely that spoke to him, soothing his soul. He did not know the place, but he felt as if it knew him, and he welcomed it. He had no direction, sought none and took none, but the old barn attracted him somehow. Its faded and peeling paint, its planks of cracked timber, the holes, the splinters, the rusted locks, all beckoned to him. He felt a kinship to such a thing, old, forgotten, yet still standing.

His eyes roved over the great structure, his eyes bright yet distant. A smile played strongly about his pressed lips, yet it was empty, hollow, like something forced. He walked around the barn in its entirety, first the south wall, then the west, moving clockwise until he at last reached the east wall. There he spied something hidden and long since buried among the tall grass. He pulled and pushed aside the yellow stalks, until at last he uncovered a small red tricycle, the kind a young child would ride.

The man's hands trembled, and as he lifted one to his face, the light struck the tears brimming in his once steady eye. Instantly he buried his face in the inside of his coat, trying to stifle to sobs he had suppressed this long while. A child's bike, buried under so much grass, yet it looked almost new, as if waiting for the child to return and ride on top of its squeaky wheels once more. Time passed, swiftly for the tricycle, it had lived a long time in its forgotten state, but an eternity for the man beside it. So lost inside himself and his tears that he did not notice the sun pass in its flight, not the rising chill of the evening air, he did not even feel the scrap of yellow paper slip from his hands, to be quickly carried off by the wind.

Barn | Jordan Peace

The gusty wind blew open the large wooden door with a trembling creak that pierced the old woman’s eardrums and seemed to make her soul cringe. The scattered hay and feed that lay on the ground was kicked up into a small cyclone that wound its way across the small barn and died only a few feet from the sheep pen. The woman debated with herself if she should get up and close the door, or stay with the ewe that was lying on its side and bleating with a fury that rivaled that of the creaking door. The woman decided that the sheep was a more pressing matter.

The sheep was writhing on the soft hay of her pen, blood already staining its off white wool. The woman had known that this was going to happen soon. It had been about four months since she had discovered that the sheep she called Maggie was pregnant. During which time the already ornery sheep had become even more so. This was not going to be an easy delivery.

The woman bent over and examined Maggie’s progress so far. Reaching inside she could feel something hard and sharp. The woman thought that it could possibly be a hoof in which case it would be a miracle if the birth was done before dawn. Getting down onto her knees the woman reached into Maggie, despite the sheep’s objections, and tried to turn the unborn lamb into its proper head first position. If she couldn’t do it there was a strong possibility that the lamb would be still born and the labor pains could kill Maggie.

It was a delicate balance it try and reposition the little lamb. If she pulled too hard she could easily break its back or neck. If she didn’t pull hard enough it wouldn’t move. The old woman scrunched up her face in concentration as Maggie’s bleating became worse and worse. Slowly but surely the lamb began to move. This birthing reminded the old woman about her own. It had taken thirteen hours and was excruciatingly painful. Eventually the doctors had decided it be to do a cesarean section which the woman was very grateful for.

As the woman continued to tug the tiny lamb caught on the sheep’s vaginal wall. Gritting her teeth the woman felt around the lamb and Maggie continued to shriek and scream. The little sheep wasn’t moving and the old woman couldn’t find a pulse. She had to act quickly if she was going to save the lamb’s life.

Carefully turning the lamb the woman continued to pull as she felt her hands being squeezed by Maggie’s pushing. A new stream of blood ran from Maggie as the hoof of the little lamb cut into her. Suddenly the lamb twisted around and slid free from its mother. The old woman looked at it and saw that it was slickly small, with its eyes closed, and not breathing. The woman carefully checked the little lamb and found that it was still born.

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes as she placed the tiny creature next to its mother. The wind continued to howl around the old barn with its cracked and chipped paint, but to the woman it sounded very quiet. Maggie has stopped bleating. As the tears fell free from her eyes the woman looked down at the ornery sheep gently licking her small child.

The woman sobbed uncontrollably as she watched this scene. It reminded her so much of herself and her own child who was such a struggle in birth and in life. Constantly running around and fighting against her in his childish way. It was more than the woman could take as she saw the dead lamb lying next to its mother. A wave of guilt crashed over her as she thought of how she had taken the lamb from its mother. It seemed too similar to how her son had left her. Quietly she stood up and walked over to the door closing it behind her. She couldn’t stop crying as she looked back at the old barn. She left to give Maggie what she never had, time to say goodbye to her son.