The Old Barn

**Chapter One**

The sun rose against the eastern hill. An old red barn sat nestled in green grass and oceans of golden wheat. The morning dew sparkled like diamonds, while the whole farm slowly awoke from its peaceful slumber. The Rooster swaggered out first and reached the tip-top of the tiny steeple and proudly puffed out his chest. He crowed.

“WAKE UP!”

He ruffled his feathers, scratched the tin roof with his claws and then cried again.

“Up an’ at ‘em! Is time to start the day!”

And with his shrill, but stern voice, everyone crept from their beds. Wearily, they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. They yawned and stretched. The Farmer rolled from his beaten mattress, placing his feet on the wood floor below. He squared his shoulders with his knees and grumbled.

“Damn bird.”

Every day, the rooster crowed sharply at 5:00 A.M and Farmer John crawled out from beneath his quilts. He cursed the bird, shook his head, and would then make his way to the washroom. There, he would clean and dress and then he would wander down the stairs. The sweet, bitter, and delicious fragrance of breakfast met him right on schedule. The scent of coffee, buttermilk pancakes, eggs and bacon traveled up the stairs, tickling his nose and teasing him all the way down until he saw the missus, and every morning he thought the same thought- that he loved her more than life itself.

Mrs. Williams was a firm believer of “A place for everything, everything in its place.” She felt that no truer words had ever been spoken and as such, she knew that was why their farm was a successful one. They were a partnership. Not only in the eyes of God, but in every sense of the term. If one of them was working hard, the other one was working harder and that was how it was supposed to be. She made sure the house was ship-shape. She had her own orderly schedule that she stuck to and, in no modest manner, she knew that if it were not for her that this old man of hers would be dead. He would not have survived raising kids, or the business matters, or even the livestock. He would have roamed off and been left for buzzard food.

“Smells good, Annie,” John said. He kissed her on the cheek, tucking yesterday’s paper underneath his armpit.

“Didn’t you read that already?” Annie jeered, crinkling her nose as she pointed her spatula at the newspaper.

“I sure did, but the Anderson boy won’t be here till almost noon. Can’t eat breakfast with nothing to chew my thoughts on.”

“Pray tell, what thoughts are those?” She chortled.

“Hush you, before I give you something to pray about.” John retaliated. He spanked her gently and gave another kiss.

“Now, Johnny. Mind your manners! Gods watching you, ya ol’ fart, and I can tell ya right now- he doesn’t want to see that!”

She laughed again and fixed their plates. She danced around the kitchen, gracefully and precisely placing perfect helpings on each dish and then to the table. Not a clang or a clank made, just gentle movements always. It was just breakfast and yet, it was as beautiful as a Tchaikovsky recital. John thumbed through his paper, commenting to Annie here and there about each article and then he glanced up.

“Orwell died.”

“Is he the one with the aliens?”

“No, that’s Wells. He died four years ago.”

“No, no… the other one. The big scare,”

“Orson? No, he’s just a kid!”

“Who’s Orwell? Oh wait, is he the one with the animals?”

“Yeah, ma. The one with the animals.”

“It’s so creepy.”

“It’s commies.”

“Pa!”

“It’s true, but I liked it. Got it sitting around here somewhere…”

“I did too, but it’s just plain sad.”

“Life is hard and sad. Sometimes, it’s plain rotten.”

“John, ya ever wonder if animals could talk like that?”

“Ha! I’d get my shotgun out if they did! Devil ducks, demon chicks…”

“Okay, okay… I was only foolin’…”

The barn was lively- a place for everyone and everyone in their place. The animals had all waddled and staggered from their keeps and were now bustling around, waiting for the Farmer to begin his morning. They knew the strict regime now. Every morning was like clockwork and they had to be sure, they were prompt and ready to go. If somebody straggled behind, John would look at them and then he would take them to the shadowy side of the farm. It was not too far from the old barn, but it was forbidden from them and, if rumors were true, for very good reason.

The screen door rattled off the front porch in the distance and the animals lined up at their gates. The coop was closest to the farmhouse, then the livery where the horses and the cows shared their pens and then the old barn where a few sheep, goats and pigs rested. The noise of the livestock grew louder as Farmer John and the hounds approached. Russell, the scruffy mutt of the pack, was first to greet the critters. He was grey with patches of black and white fur. He was younger in years than all the other dogs and you could see it plainer than his bright blue eye. He yipped and yapped.

“Good Morning, Ladies!”

The hens cooed and clucked, coddling their eggs close underneath their thighs. They whispered and giggled to each other. Chickens were the farm’s gossipers. They knew everything there was to know and they felt no shame for their flirtatious, vicious and fear mongering personalities. They thought they were God’s one and only gift to the planet and that they could do no wrong. They eyed the pup and back to each other, still hissing to one another as Russell conducted attendance. He stuck his wet black nose into the coop door as he excitedly sniffed out each one.

“I see Lucinda- hi Lucy. Betsy, lookin’ good. Charlotte- how ya doin’, Charlie? Winnie? Win- Oh, there you are…”

The hens sneered and fluttered their eyes. For such small creatures, their eyes pierced like daggers. Lucy and Betsy were the first to stretch their feathers and toss up some straw.

“Russsellll, you silly sweet boy. Why ever are you doing rollcall?”

“Yeah. That’s just bizarre, honey!”

“It’s not like we’re going to go missing in the night.”

The gals guffawed, holding wings up to their beaks as they mocked him.

“Well, that’s actually exactly why…”

Russell whimpered and looked back at Farmer John. They always argued with him about something. He had to learn to be more aggressive. He had to be more like Brutus. Brutus was a real dog. The hens now surrounded him at the doorway, fluttering and flapping their wings. Concerned and irritated, they squawked in unison.

“What?”

“Ye-yeah. We have wolves, y'know? Wolves, foxes, bobcats… You guys could easily get snagged in the dead of night. Even raccoons! Raccoons will pop your heads right off!”

Russell scratched the back of his neck, his smile ear to ear as he tried to gather his thoughts and explain the dangers to the chickens, but hysteria erupted from the coop. The girls shrieked and screeched as they quivered down the boardwalk.

“Oh no, I’m sorry. Please, ladies. Please, calm down.”

Russell begged, but the hens did not appease and soon Farmer John and Brutus had returned. Brutus gave a loud growl. He stood straight, tall, and strong. His rusty red coat glistened in the sun. His face scarred from prowlers and prey. He did not have to say anything, his face said it all. Disappointment, as usual.

“What’s going on here, Russ?”

Everyone had a place, but him.

Over at the barn, Shirley, Curly and Bobert poked their white heads through the fence as Farmer John passed by. One, two, three. Always in threes as they were triplets and there was no separating them, even for a moment. They grazed together, napped together and even got shaved together. They were mild mannered, calm, and obedient so really John did not mind that they were odder than normal sheep and they were his last three. Their parents had gone to the other pasture, which they prayed they would get to go as well someday.

“We’re gonna be the prize winners and then you’ll see! We’ll go yet!” They boasted to the animals in the barn.

“Our fluffy coats, our polished hooves tip-toeing, and perfect unison. We are a shoe-in.”

The other animals blinked and snorted, rolling their eyes, ever so unimpressed. Every animal had a purpose, but it only added insult to injury that these younglings thought because they could walk around fences with the help of gnawing teeth and strict barks that they were good for more than food and clothes. The goats had had enough, they lifted their noses to the air and trotted over to play ‘kick-the-can’ on the other side of the barn. The pigs rested in their enclosure, flicking their ears, unenthusiastically. Mama and Papa Pig were large Chester Whites and Major was a proud Berkshire and then there was the litter- Wilbur, Babe, Gordo, Petunia, Penny and Sweetie. The litter was busy at Mama’s teats, distracted by their filling stomachs, while Papa and Major were waiting eagerly at the trough. Both grinned eerily at the frolicking triplets.

“What happens then, young sheep? What happens when you get too old? Too stiff in the joints? Sick in the body? What then?”

Major peered out towards the Farmer and then back up at the barn rafters. All around their pen, along the rotting wood, old ribbons and trophies were scattered, gathering cobwebs. He looked back down at Shirley, Curly and Bobert and shook his head.

“When you use up your youthfulness and usefulness, you’ll be chops, too.”

Everyone had one sole purpose in life and that was to die.

**Originally, I wrote this as a short story, but now I’ve made it a series!**

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