It had stood there for almost two centuries. Leaning to the left, the straddle stones underneath the old granary barn kept it aloft. Even so, the field mice found their way inside, nibbling whatever they could find which usually consisted of biscuit crumbs and discarded sandwiches.
As the afternoon sun warmed the earth, the barn creaked, readjusting itself for comfort. The sound of hurrying footsteps down the path interrupted the bird song which filled the air.
Izzy placed her hand on the barn door and cast a glance over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. Listening, she was content she was alone - the only sound being that of a wasp scratching at the wood. She watched it for a few seconds before swinging the door open and then pulling it tight, sealing herself inside.
Sunlight peeped through cracks in the wooden sides of the ‘shack’ as she called it. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she tucked her hand in her pocket, withdrawing a cotton handkerchief. Unfolding it carefully, she picked up a brown tipped, white stick and striking a match, as she had seen her mother do, lit it. The end glowed red and fizzled. Placing it in her mouth, she inhaled deeply.
The bitter taste made her feel sick and as she coughed, she could hear someone outside.
“Mum’s going to be so angry!”
Izzy’s younger sister ran up the path and as she did, Izzy threw the cigarette to the floor and pushed the door open, running after her.
The old barn gave a deep sigh. A thin curl of smoke reached up from the floor, as the red glow wrapped itself round the wood. Outside, the wasp continued to pick at the barn until it became too hot and the flames too close.
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