Hay In Heaven

• Amy Astill, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2017

I noticed the rustic wooden sign shake, it twitched like Ned Kelly hanging from the gallows. Pieces of dirt covered the manually engraved writing: ‘Tamworth’. A line of old eucalyptus trees danced, their leaves soared blissfully, creating a tranquil tune. The roads were silent then; whereas the days of gravel and granite roads were a thing yet to come. Each store in the main street drooped and wilted – four of them was enough. A dozen black and blue ravens sat on ragged power lines; swaying. Swaying on outdated, fragile poles that chose to neglect their chance of shocking the birds with electricity. The wind pinched me and the sun continued to rise in the direction of an isolated property. Home.
It was a beautiful sight – the whole day ahead was practically sitting on the horizon of rolling acres. A long bush track signified an exciting journey: fundamentally the outskirts of central Tamworth, defined by narrow trees and bushes acting as shade, and finally a remote farm with; free-range Birmingham chicken enclosures, meadows of floral gardens, grasslands used for vegetable plantations, two lush vineyards greeting each other, and where the beams of light stopped, dwelled a sizeable burgundy barn accompanied by above circling crows. Eucalyptus green tin roofs were cheap in the catalogues and so, that’s what it had. Voluptuous golden wattle vines hung from dents within the metal, and continued onto the soils below. These vines hid both graffiti, scratches, and my corrupt memories; yet also suppressed my popular opinion that vertical timber walls were a repulsive and budgeted idea on behalf of construction. However, the most pronounced piece on the barn, through my judgement, was a four-panel, picturesque window that stuck like glue to the front wall; in fear of falling off and receiving wounds from not only the floor, but also the double-hinged doors beneath. I knew they were open, due to how uncontrollably I shivered. Through the gaping crevice lived two segregations – twelve Holstein Friesian cows and thousands of lifeless ones.
We were constantly fattened. Grasses and stems being thrown into our tattered pen by the kilogram made it impossible not to eat off of the floor and drink from my dilapidated trough. In the water’s reflection I was able to scrutinize the sliminess of my black and recognisable eyeballs, I noticed that I was of similar height to the circumference of large tractor wheels, and I could only assume that my heavy-set, rectangular-like, and muscular-build was influenced by an enlarged ten-dollar note. Plots of black splatters on my white skin resembled persistent dairy stains and my spoon-shaped hooves were the colour of cream, tinted in brown fertilizer. Through closer inspection I acknowledged that there was nothing pink with teats hanging near my hind legs – much to my extreme disgust I am a cattle breed. Carelessly, I continued to grind the bitter grasses with a twist of my tongue and drink the acidic water as a part of my everyday routine.