The Farm

My short story ‘The Farm’ is included in the ninth collection of The Wire’s Dream Magazine, a publication featuring fiction, poetry, essays, art and photography from creators around the world. 

Please visit their website to read the piece and the rest of the collection


We arrived at the farm on a Sunday evening, having put off leaving for there all day. Dad had remembered to close the crooked steel gate, and I got out to open it so that Sam could drive through, my boots sticking into the shallow slick of mud that coated the long dirt driveway. I closed and latched it behind me, climbing back into the passenger seat. 

“So it’s officially too late to go back now.”

His voice didn’t rise at the end of the sentence, but there was still a question there. I eyed the grassy wetness that I could see on either side of the driveway, gloomy against the sharpness of the road ahead. We were still far enough from the house that dad wouldn’t have spotted us arriving. Turning around was possible.

“We’re here now.”

Dad had forgotten we were coming, or got the days mixed up, or perhaps given up on us through the long, lonely weekend. Either way, he was surprised when we pulled open the side door leading into the kitchen, struggling to hold our bags and remove our muddy shoes at once.

“I haven’t made any dinner,” he said distractedly as I hugged him.

“It’s okay, I can throw something together.”

He insisted on cooking himself though, pulling eggs and vegetables out of the fridge to make omelettes. Sam and I sat on stools at the oversized wooden table that dominated the kitchen and living space. All the furniture at the farm had come with the house, like the previous owners hadn’t wanted any part of it anymore. Sometimes, without warning, I would suddenly think of dad alone on someone else’s couch, surrounded by someone else’s things, and become awash with a sadness that flooded upwards from my stomach and created a painful pressure in my chest. 

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