Rupert Brooke-Based Vignette... Type-Thing.

At a recent writers group meeting, a member read out this opening line from “The Hill”, a poem by Rupert Brooke.

“Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill.”

We were then given fifteen minutes to free-write with this as our opening line. Here's my piece:

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill. Each step felt weighted, like I was being forced back by a thousand tiny hands. I leaned into the incline, climbing on. On a still day, I would have landed nose-first into the grass; my heels didn't touch the ground as I trudged on. The horizon was getting closer, and the wind continued to prop me upright.

The plastic map case around my neck flapped crazily, like a panicked animal. Every ten seconds it would flip upwards and slap me on the nose. My temper was flaring. I wanted to throw it into the wind and watch it fly like debris into the valley, but I couldn't- I wouldn't know where I was if I lost the map.

Every time I thought I'd reached the summit, another clump of land appeared, higher, further, behind it.

My walking partner was largely silent. He kept close to me, saying nothing. I could hear his breathing, heavy and constant.

And then the land dropped away infront of us, presenting a sprawling vista of hills , and a distant town in the haze.

“We made it,” I panted.

He looked at me, tired, saying nothing. He sat in the grass, breathing heavily.

I put one hand on his shoulder. “Here. Got something for you.”

I opened my bag and found the bottle of water. I took a huge gulp. He didn't complain that I served myself first. Then I pulled out his dog bowl and filled it up. He lapped eagerly, tail wagging.