The exterior of the shed was bleached white and yet defiantly brown, the roof above it seemed to be white too, though it was certainly black. The shed seemed to be collapsing on itself, slowly folding inwards, each slat loosely stuck to the one above, the door permanently ajar.
In front of the shed a path had formed between the clumps of uncut grass, an upturned wheelbarrow, leading to the roughcast corner of the house and the unpainted high fence.
From there, three gangly youths appear striding with bandilegs and immaculate trainers over the path we have just described. They know to avoid the muddy patches, they move quickly and their trainers, if you were wearing them, would give you a particular tactile feeling  of stamping on patches of frosted grass. Their breath follows them briefly and  marks their entry into the shed, as they close the door behind them it is the only sign left of their being there.

Each youth takes his well established position.Two sit on a bench with legs splayed in front of them, both have their arms crossed on their fronts, both twitch their legs. The third sits, with his knees almost at his chin, on top of an upturned muddy bucket. He is fishing in his pocket and takes out a small white lump, he picks briefly at a corner and reveals the shred of the carrier bag which makes up the ill-fashioned container, as it unravels a green gem is revealed from within. He reaches out to his side and takes a ragged gardeners world magazine from on top of a garden shelving unit. He tips his palm over the magazine and the green gem falls away with some persuasion, crumbs fall on to the sticky cover of the magazine. Charlie dimmock grins out.
He fishes again in his pocket and dumps the other essntials on the magazine which is now balanced on his knees. As he begins work, the tall boy wearing the black cottons, on the left of the bench takes out his phone and puts on some music, experimenting with the dynamics of a clay plant pot.
As the song nears its end the boy on the bucket has red raw fingers, moist and numb. He produces the culminate of his efforts to his lips. Before he can fish once again in his deep cotton pockets a cigarette lighter is deftly lobbed into his lap.
The youths smoke the joint. Those who aren’t smoking keep their hands in pockets and their legs twitching slowly.

Outside the afternoon is giving in to the evening with a sigh. The cold last rays shine over the hedge and illuminate the precipitate coming from the shade, and the plumes of smoke coming from the shed.

The boys open the door to the outside, slowly and quietly shutting the door behind them. They slowly bounce down the path in front of them. The shed shudders still as they leave. It blinks awake at the closing of the front door later that night, noticing only the cold. It remains asleep until the next afternoon when the the youths make the same trip again.

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The boy who wore the black cotton clothes stumbles up the old path, in his hand is a red can. The dark clear night is bitterly cold, light spills from the moon above and is mixed with far off amber of street lights. The boy starts to swish and splash a clear fluid out of the red plastic can, stumbling occasionally. His eyes are glazed and angry.
His phone glows from his other hand. He leans against the side of the shed briefly and picks open the door, then tosses the red can in and slams the door shut. He fumbles in his pocket cursing, then opens the door again, picks a lighter from the top of the garden shelves and storms out. He stands swaying at the mouth of his cave and flicks the flint of the lighter, swearing again. Eventually it catches and he kneels down to the grass where he spilled the fluid previously. It ignites suddenly and spreads to the foot of the collapsing shed. His leg takes a light also and he suddenly looks panicked and pained, collapsing on the frosted mud and grass and waving his leg in the air. The flames shake and shiver and give up as he starts to roll his weight over them. His face is shocked at the sudden hole in his trousers, and pained. He leans back on his forearms and watches the underwhelming flames around the foot of the shed.
The shed, the night and the youth are illuminated briefly by a golden burst from the sheds bowels. Now the shed burns quickly from the inside.
The boy leans back and looks at the clear sky and is warmed by the glow of the shed.
He falls into an inebriated sleep on the frosted grass with a satisfied glow inside of him and the warmth of the fire in front of him.

The morning comes and he stirs stiffly awake. His leg is raw and tender. In front of him, the blackened abstract structure of the shed. Around the shed a the grass is green and moist making way to hard white frost, the patch where he slept is green, breaking the circumference created by the burning shed. Smoke wisps up from the shed and he looks bewildered. The red patch on his leg burns and weeps and his hips and back throb with a cold painful dullness. He looks over the corner the garden to where the shed was and looks at the long field and hills and small river behind. The house behind him stirs awake.