Poetry & Flash Fiction Collection

November Day // Flash Fiction

In the back of my grandparent's house rests an old truck. Its tires nestled tightly into loose gravel and dry, yellowing grass. It's not particularly extraordinary in its looks—its sides don't shine with the gleam of a fancy car, rather sitting dully atop of dying grass, and its color is a somber gray that rivals the gloom of a November afternoon in upstate New York. Yet here is where my cousin and I sit, the cold of its frost-laden edge seeping into our thighs and chilling our bones.

Inside holds promises of a furnace and the thick smell of turkey wafts through the small kitchen. But despite its cold, the outside brings the peace and quiet we both crave in the face of endlessly frustrating arguing from family as they prepare Thanksgiving dinner.

Sophie is only a month older than I, but her growth spurt favored her much more than my own. She stands tall and confident while I walk gangly next to her, twig-like in comparison. Her hair is straight and black while mine curls behind my head in a thick mass. However, we both wear twin smiles that frame our faces in spite of our differences.

We sit and converse on the ledge of this truck in something that must be a tradition. Sophie leans back, tilting her head to look behind the car, the loose ends of her dark hair catching beads of snow as they float to the ground.

"When do you think the barn's gonna fall?" She asks, blinking at the towering structure that sags behind us.

I let out a contemplative hum as I stare at it, the barn's sides protrude like a pregnant belly, precariously holding the weight of both the steel-tiled roof and the dust-covered memories of my childhood. Birds flit through the crevices of the walls in a quick dance, breaking only to shriek out a melancholy tune as they escape the cover of their rundown home.

"Hopefully not soon," I answer, turning back to face her, "it'll suck when it does, though."

She lets out a soft laugh, nearly falling backward into the truck as she leans too far onto her hands. "That's putting it pretty lightly. What are we gonna do about all of the stuff in there?"

I shrug, the roughness of my jacket brushing my chin, "Birds are probably using it one way or another, or some other animal I don't even wanna think about."

"Ugh, I hope there aren't any rats in there," she answers, narrowing her eyes at the gaping entrance of the barn.

"I doubt there are rats, it's more likely to have snakes. Which I'd much prefer."

Sophie blanches, "are you kidding? Both are nasty."

I laugh, the idea of animals living in the rundown barn is less disgusting than Sophie thinks, rather it's the thought of critters creeping in every corner that sends chills down my spine.

Still, as we lapse into a bout of silence, dread settles into my gut like a stone. Because if—when— the barn collapses into a billowing heap on the floor, what will become of the memories stored between its walls?

Cracked board games blanketed with dust, holes in the walls squeezed past in a game of tag, the rotting plank used as a bridge over mountains of hay, hatched robin eggs, the old rungs of a ladder worn down by a lifetime of hands, what will become of these memories, so vivid in my mind, yet so easily destroyed?
I turn to Sophie to tell her as much, but I've never been articulate in my words and trip over them in my haste, "What's going to happen— I mean— what are we going to do when it falls?"

Sophie stares at me and blinks before shoving my shoulder with her tanned hand. "Well you have me, and I have you, so I think we'll be fine."

She hops off the base of the truck, turning back to grin at me, "I'm cold," she says, "let's go back."

I follow Sophie inside, warmth in my chest despite the chill of a November day.

~•~
A/N: a more personal piece. This was a personal narrative for my AP Lang class. The prompt was to write about someone who is your life-line. This is, again, my cousin. Who I wrote about in my Ode as well.