The Farm by Matt Moss

Author:Matt Moss [Moss, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-26T22:00:00+00:00

“Gentlemen, welcome!” Mr. Gibbs greets us at the door with a smile that’s a mile wide, the smell of his hand-rolled cigarettes thick on his clothes.

“Where’s Mr. Whyte?” I ask, stepping into the foyer.

“Taking a nap. So keep your voices down as it’s best to not wake him.”

“What’s down the hall?” Abram asks, pointing to the smoking room—the room with the guns.

Gibbs turns to Abram and his face goes hard. “We talk a lot about rules on this farm. Well, there’s only one rule in this house.” He points down the hall. “That room is off limits. You hear me?” His gaze and tone is firm, his point clear. “If anyone steps foot down that hall, they will be banished from the house forever.”

“Got it. Stay the hell out of the hall. No problem,” Abram replies.

“What’s that enticing smell?” Benji asks, his nose sniffing at the dining room to the right.

Mr. Gibbs grins. “Meat of the Day.” A low chuckle comes from him after he says the words and it sounds different than normal. He invites us in. “Come on. It’s almost ready.”

We gather around the table and, without saying a word to one another, take the same seats as the night before. I find it strange that people do that—return to what’s familiar or customary. Just another take on the human psyche and how we get so comfortable with what we know; cruise control with our daily routines. Most people are afraid of change. It’s uncomfortable. Even hard at times. And nobody likes to be out of their comfort zone. I sure as hell don’t.

So I find comfort in my seat. I call it my seat because I sat in it yesterday, so it belongs to me and no one else.

I shake my head, realizing that my thoughts are running away again.

Shut up.

Mr. Red walks in with a steaming dish. “Dinner is served.” He sets it on the table and we all sit taller in our seats to look over the meal. It’s a large roast with potatoes, carrots, and celery—all the ingredients bathing in an aluminum tray, brown-sauce swimming pool.

“Wow,” Donald gasps, his eyes and mouth open wide. “Can we say grace now and commence with the eating part? I don’t know how much longer I can look at that, let alone smell it, without going crazy.”

Mr. Gibbs takes the seat at the head of the table. “Make your plates,” he says with outstretched arms.

He’s sitting in the wrong seat. “Won’t Mr. Whyte be joining us?” I ask.

His eyes dart, locking onto mine. “Mr. Whyte likes long naps. Sometimes, he’ll even sleep for days,” he says and shoots me a grin. “You’ll see the routines the longer you stay here. No worries, though. I’m sure he’s with us in spirit.” He chuckles to himself as his hand moves in an instinctive motion to pull a smoke. But he doesn’t.

Donald begins tearing off a sizable portion of meat with the cutlery, brown juice spotting the table around the dish as he works at it.

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