The corrugated iron roof was domed some twenty-five feet above them, like a shanty-town cathedral. The grain was piled high at the far end and for the farm rats it was a free-for-all. At the other end were the packed sacks of grain ready for distribution. We loved to stamp, clap and shout to hear the echo in the warehouse and when it rained it sounded like a million maracas, like all the percussionists in the world had got together to play on the roof.

By james, October 27, 2013.

I know my journey is coming to an end when the warehouse is in front of me. I should have expected it. The houses gave way to empty barren road a full twenty minutes ago and the verge became more of a junkyard than the junkyard. The old machinery lines the road covered in dirt and scavenged into skeletons of whatever they were. I force my mind back into the present so I can take in its form. Still it has the curved roof like an aircraft hanger and the walls are corrugated tin. The broken tarmac around it is empty except for a forklift – it must be in use again, just like it was all those years ago. There is something new this year, a chain-link fence surrounds it. I don't care though, there isn't anything that would keep me out, it's just a matter of time before I am within the walls. It's not as brave as it sounds though, at this hour of day everyone is sleeping somewhere cool, even the thieves – so the chance of there being some guard on duty is pretty much nil.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, May 7, 2015.

Authored by daisy, here.