My hand grips the cold, dull metal handle on the large door and I begin to pull. The door does not come easily at first so I dig into the ground with my heels. As my heels put divots in the mud, the door gives way and clatters along the track. I choke and begin to cough from the air inside. The air is thick and heavy with the smell of sweet grasses and old dust; like dirt and the smell of of rain mixed together with a freshly cut lawn.
Dust particles fill the air, twinkling as they catch the sun's rays. In front of me is a wagon, its hitch now rusty brown from being left where rain and snow could corrode the metal. The wagon is stacked high from front to back with bales of dull green, dry hay. A thick layer of loose hay on the floor muffles my footsteps as I walk further into the building. The wall's grey wooden beams stand over me like the legs of an oversized daddy-long legs. Spider webs full of dust and broken stalks of hay cover the beams.
The south end of the building holds bales of yellow, shining straw. I think of Rumplestilskin and the gold he spun for the princess. The straw looks warm and inviting, like it hold the rays of sunshine that helped it grow in the field. If I were to sit on it, I would feel the broken ends poking and scratching my clothes.
Along the west wall, near the door is a storeroom for the corn that is waiting to be ground into feed. The walls of the storeroom are made of a rough wood, that feels like the outside of a pineapple. Red paint, long dried, has marked the walls like a Jackson Pollack painting.
I take one last look around and close my eyes to inhale the sweet hay smell again. Stepping over to the door, I again dig in my heels to get the door moving on its track. With a final dull thump the doors meet and I walk toward the house where supper is waiting to be served.