The Barn

Dear Reader,

This is an exercise I wrote after reading The Art of Fiction, by John Gardner (see page 37).

The barn withstood the cold October wind; red paint peeling off the last sadly worn boards, as if the sorrows of time had weathered away all but the last vestiges of its once new painted surface.

Years of expanding in the hot glare of the summer sun, and shrinking in the freezing chill of winter had separated the boards. The dim light of the overcast day filtered through the cracks. The effort to make the old barn new and useful again seemed titanic. It would take neighbors and friends and family and workmen.

Or the boards could be taken down, one by one, re-milled and sold for flooring.

Or the whole damn thing could just be burnt to the ground, a raging pyre against the injustices of time, sorrow and misfortune.