I’ve written a few stories (some good and some bad) for the creative writing course I’m doing a school currently. Most of my ramblings will never see the light of day, but some I guess I would like to share. I’ve always found it hard to write about particularly ‘posi’ stuff so I tend to stick to darker pieces. I took inspiration for this story initially from a piece written by BGO user: Cammobreed written here: (sometimesthingsjustdisappear.blogspot.com), he dosn’t really know about it but yeah maybe now he will. I aimed to write a minimalistic piece…judging by most people not having a clue about what I’m talking about I guess I suceeded…
Dust gathered from the unsealed road retreated to form my handprint over the faded metal. The bonnet of the car was still cold in the early morning sun. Just as I had remembered Old Smith’s Road slithered its way upward, weaving in and out of the tress as it slowly made progress along the hillside. The long drive had proved not in the least bit helpful; not an inch of my body felt the need to sleep, yet the dark bags under my eyes made my face look like death in the metallic reflection.
The end of the Old Smith’s marks a transition as the trail parts ways with the trees and falls into a clearing littered with wild blossoms that stand out amongst the thick mat of grass. The wind hit my face with a reassuring sense of familiarity, bringing with it that faint odour of salt, the kind that stirs up distant memories. Random tussocks of scrub stood permanently bent over on the edge of the cliff ahead, crippled by a constant breeze that flowed up through its escarpment. I reached down and picked up a flower lying crushed between the weathered tread marks of another vehicle. Its petals still retained the vibrant cobalt of the others; the bent stem was the only sign that it was dead.
Just a short walk on from the clearing laid a lookout that watches over a vast valley of trees as they dip toward the sea. I thought about the many late afternoons I had spent there on the thick wooden bench perched near the edge staring out into the horizon, my feet rested on my bike. Often in the follies of my youth I would convince one the older children in town to buy me a packet of tobacco, rolling and smoking them by myself on the bench as I waited for the sunset.
The lookout was the same as it had always been, but yet looked so unfamiliar at the same time. Here the grass tussocks had made their way from the cliff’s edge and begun to strangle the seat amongst a wave of overgrown weeds. The bench itself stood weak and slim against the tide of vegetation, its bolts had rusted to a fine powder. Reaching out it felt like it was about to collapse under the weight of my own hand. I used to fall down across its wide seat out of breath from the ride up the hill. I thought best of taking a seat, choosing instead to lay my jacket over the backrest as I sat down amongst the tangle of the ground.
The rocks from the lookout dropped off steeply towards the trees some fifty metres below. I spat off the edge and watched as the wind threw my saliva about and dispersed it before it hit the treetops. No fence had ever been erected here; this place was from a different time and had been long forgotten. The canopy looked so fluffy from this height, as it was almost a gigantic bed. My tired eyes made it look so tempting…
The valley looked as if they had faded since the last time we had met. Yet it still looked so stunning as the trees danced with each other in the wind, covering the earth in a sepia blanket. Each tree moved in perfect timing with the other as if every action had been painstakingly rehearsed; Mother Nature’s triumph over logistics. The back of my lungs screamed for a cigarette but I let the call fall on deaf ears. I was witnessing for both the first and last time the unrivalled beauty of something so unintended and untouched; the need to fill my lungs with smoke seemed so trivial. The trees around the lookout seemed so lonely and weak, empty bottles and wrappers were strewn around their bases.
A series of electrical towers ran away from the lookout along a ridge that eventually plunged into the ocean. They were nothing special just the type you see everywhere. Loose dust pelleted into my face making my eyes watery, but yet the towers refused to shift even in the slightest. It seemed as if they were a mirage upon the landscape in front of me. I lit up a cigarette.
I placed the broken flower in a modest vase on the bedside table as I returned home. The walls were still grey, the sun had not yet fully peeked its head above the mountains. Nothing in the room moved. I had never felt so awake.
