Wednesday, 8 September 2010

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.

1 comment:

M.J. Nicholls said...

Urgh. I hate prompts from lines of poetry. Why do people think poetry is so much better than prose, that prose writers should always be aspiring to the vaulted brilliance of the untouchable poets? Poop and pants!

Anyway, this snippet was great. Keep up the good work, Mr, T!