In liu of talking about crappy days, I give you this, a snippet of the WIP:
On either side, flat stone had been mortared into solid square pillars designed to hold a majestic iron gate. The majesty was all gone now, and the gate was a rusted relic lying twisted and bent beneath a wild hedge of blackberry brambles. A creek burbled beneath a wooden bridge made of steel and railroad ties. The railings had long since fallen off.
Taryn jogged over the bridge. The scents of creosote from the ties, damp earth, and lush greenery assailed her and she breathed in deeply. This place felt like coming home.
The land belonged to the Porterstone family. They had come from California to grow grapes and kiwis. Most folks around had thought them crazy, what with the ice and snow in the winters. But the farm had thrived for years and there was talk of expanding and building their own winery. But then one day the plants just quit producing. Nobody quite knew why. The vines grew and flowered, but there was no fruit. Nothing helped. There was a lot of talk of poison in the dirt or a fungus blight or bad water. The county extension folks were called in and then the university folks and even some government scientists. Still no fruit and no explanations. After a few years, the Porterstones gave up and left, and as far as anybody knew, they still owned the land.
Anymore, Taryn was the only one who visited the place. It was her favorite place to go when she wanted to be alone.
The house was long since gone, lost in a fire years back, but the barn remained, its oak walls steadfast despite the moss furring its roof and the paint curling from its sides. It was as sturdy as the ground it stood on.