I love old barns and the stories they could tell. Today’s metal sheds are nothing compared to the barns made with wooden beams and that sport hay lofts. So when the Friday Fictioneer picture went up, I saw lots of tales in that decrepit old barn. However, it was so hard to reduce any story of this picture to 100 words! But I played fair and used only the required 100.
For complete rules to play along or to read more shorties, go http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
I rock in the oak chair, rungs squeaking on each backward tilt. The yellow tabby brushes my ankles as I scan my corner of Breezy Holler. My fingers itch to push fresh peas out of the pod, but I wear my Sunday dress.
“Mom, you ready?” My son already heads to the car with my valise as he waits for me to say goodbye to seventy years of living.
I know the place is no longer our pristine cabin, that the porch rails wobble like my knees. I glance at the dilapidated milking barn, remember Henry there.
My life fades.