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Jonathan Smith
I looked on. In disbelief, in excitement and in reflection. I could see him, walking along the dust-drenched path toward the green settlement were the daisies pranced in the morning sun. His presence electrified the whole village, as groups of people gathered around to help him in any way possible.
As the sprinkled rays of the mid-day sun shone down, warming the earth softly, I sat, perched upon the brick wall. His name was whispered throughout the streets, wafting along the gentle silence that rested upon the village. A large crowd of people gathered around, as he looked out into the distance; exhausted, yet with a warming smile melted upon his face.
He was a tall bloke, was Jonathan. A broad, strong character with a heart of gold. His long, sun-beaten hair swayed gently in the moist breeze. A pair of squinty pupils sat beneath his brow like two pinheads, and his husky voice was enough to silence the small gathering that awaited him. His leather jacket, glazed by the rays, sat upon his trunk-like shoulders and the ripped pieces of fabric from his jeans fluttered in the gentle winds like a bird’s wing.
He sat upon a pile of hay, and took his pipe from his pocket. And, with a cloud of smoke camouflaging his aging face, he told stories of his travels to the intent audience. They stared at him, hypnotised by his speaking. I stared out across the small audience, my view point from the wall giving me a birds-eye of the happenings. He spoke to them of how he travelled to the Welsh settlements of Fishguard and Pembroke, and what strange things he had got up to. Eyes were glued to his face as the people listened, not daring to move, not even breathe.
As he spoke, he took hold of his glass and poured himself a drop of whisky. The lines upon his face were deep, like blood wounds, and his harsh cough that tore open the peaceful atmosphere that lay before us were a dead giveaway he had been drinking too much. Jonathan had been through some hard times. But, he carried on, telling stories to the audience. The sky was bleached a beautiful blue, and all out across the land the sun’s rays brought happiness and a warm feeling.
After hours of talking, Jonathan finally stood up and walked out onto the dusty pathway. He looked exhausted and lifeless. His face was so pale, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. The people snapped from their trance, and ran over toward him, lifting him up and each one offering him a place at their home. I sat there, looking on at the people, wondering what the huge fuss was about. But I am young; I don’t understand what such a brilliant man Jonathan has been.
That night, I looked up at the velvet sky, at the stars that watched down upon me like a teacher staring down at her pupils. The land lay still, as only a gentle breeze lay awake, swirling clouds of dust along the track for its own satisfaction. As I lay upon the barn hay, the sound of footsteps suddenly alarmed me. I could here them getting closer, and closer. I could here a harsh, husky voice. Mumbling, in pain, in despair. I slowly turned my head to face the track, and to my surprise I could see the outline of a figure. He looked a tall man, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. I watched on, not daring to move, as he stumbled along the track. I could here the sound of liquid inside a bottle. My eyes were fixed upon the man, but I daren’t move.
The man hoisted his arm high into the air, like the mast of a ship, and took the bottle to his lips. After a few seconds his arms dropped, and the bottle clattered against the night-swollen track. The man started mumbling again, in pain. His cries began to get louder, and louder, and I closed my eyes tight until tears rolled down my cheeks. Terror streamed through my body like a gushing river.
A sudden silence then arose over the two of us, and I looked up from my hiding place. I could see him, hunched, just standing in the road.
Then, he collapsed…
I looked on. In disbelief, in excitement and in reflection. I could see him, walking along the dust-drenched path toward the green settlement were the daisies pranced in the morning sun. His presence electrified the whole village, as groups of people gathered around to help him in any way possible.
As the sprinkled rays of the mid-day sun shone down, warming the earth softly, I sat, perched upon the brick wall. His name was whispered throughout the streets, wafting along the gentle silence that rested upon the village. A large crowd of people gathered around, as he looked out into the distance; exhausted, yet with a warming smile melted upon his face.
He was a tall bloke, was Jonathan. A broad, strong character with a heart of gold. His long, sun-beaten hair swayed gently in the moist breeze. A pair of squinty pupils sat beneath his brow like two pinheads, and his husky voice was enough to silence the small gathering that awaited him. His leather jacket, glazed by the rays, sat upon his trunk-like shoulders and the ripped pieces of fabric from his jeans fluttered in the gentle winds like a bird’s wing.
He sat upon a pile of hay, and took his pipe from his pocket. And, with a cloud of smoke camouflaging his aging face, he told stories of his travels to the intent audience. They stared at him, hypnotised by his speaking. I stared out across the small audience, my view point from the wall giving me a birds-eye of the happenings. He spoke to them of how he travelled to the Welsh settlements of Fishguard and Pembroke, and what strange things he had got up to. Eyes were glued to his face as the people listened, not daring to move, not even breathe.
As he spoke, he took hold of his glass and poured himself a drop of whisky. The lines upon his face were deep, like blood wounds, and his harsh cough that tore open the peaceful atmosphere that lay before us were a dead giveaway he had been drinking too much. Jonathan had been through some hard times. But, he carried on, telling stories to the audience. The sky was bleached a beautiful blue, and all out across the land the sun’s rays brought happiness and a warm feeling.
After hours of talking, Jonathan finally stood up and walked out onto the dusty pathway. He looked exhausted and lifeless. His face was so pale, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. The people snapped from their trance, and ran over toward him, lifting him up and each one offering him a place at their home. I sat there, looking on at the people, wondering what the huge fuss was about. But I am young; I don’t understand what such a brilliant man Jonathan has been.
That night, I looked up at the velvet sky, at the stars that watched down upon me like a teacher staring down at her pupils. The land lay still, as only a gentle breeze lay awake, swirling clouds of dust along the track for its own satisfaction. As I lay upon the barn hay, the sound of footsteps suddenly alarmed me. I could here them getting closer, and closer. I could here a harsh, husky voice. Mumbling, in pain, in despair. I slowly turned my head to face the track, and to my surprise I could see the outline of a figure. He looked a tall man, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. I watched on, not daring to move, as he stumbled along the track. I could here the sound of liquid inside a bottle. My eyes were fixed upon the man, but I daren’t move.
The man hoisted his arm high into the air, like the mast of a ship, and took the bottle to his lips. After a few seconds his arms dropped, and the bottle clattered against the night-swollen track. The man started mumbling again, in pain. His cries began to get louder, and louder, and I closed my eyes tight until tears rolled down my cheeks. Terror streamed through my body like a gushing river.
A sudden silence then arose over the two of us, and I looked up from my hiding place. I could see him, hunched, just standing in the road.
Then, he collapsed…
is this the mormon guy?
Jonathan Smith
I looked on. In disbelief, in excitement and in reflection. I could see him, walking along the dust-drenched path toward the green settlement were the daisies pranced in the morning sun. His presence electrified the whole village, as groups of people gathered around to help him in any way possible.
As the sprinkled rays of the mid-day sun shone down, warming the earth softly, I sat, perched upon the brick wall. His name was whispered throughout the streets, wafting along the gentle silence that rested upon the village. A large crowd of people gathered around, as he looked out into the distance; exhausted, yet with a warming smile melted upon his face.
He was a tall bloke, was Jonathan. A broad, strong character with a heart of gold. His long, sun-beaten hair swayed gently in the moist breeze. A pair of squinty pupils sat beneath his brow like two pinheads, and his husky voice was enough to silence the small gathering that awaited him. His leather jacket, glazed by the rays, sat upon his trunk-like shoulders and the ripped pieces of fabric from his jeans fluttered in the gentle winds like a bird’s wing.
He sat upon a pile of hay, and took his pipe from his pocket. And, with a cloud of smoke camouflaging his aging face, he told stories of his travels to the intent audience. They stared at him, hypnotised by his speaking. I stared out across the small audience, my view point from the wall giving me a birds-eye of the happenings. He spoke to them of how he travelled to the Welsh settlements of Fishguard and Pembroke, and what strange things he had got up to. Eyes were glued to his face as the people listened, not daring to move, not even breathe.
As he spoke, he took hold of his glass and poured himself a drop of whisky. The lines upon his face were deep, like blood wounds, and his harsh cough that tore open the peaceful atmosphere that lay before us were a dead giveaway he had been drinking too much. Jonathan had been through some hard times. But, he carried on, telling stories to the audience. The sky was bleached a beautiful blue, and all out across the land the sun’s rays brought happiness and a warm feeling.
After hours of talking, Jonathan finally stood up and walked out onto the dusty pathway. He looked exhausted and lifeless. His face was so pale, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. The people snapped from their trance, and ran over toward him, lifting him up and each one offering him a place at their home. I sat there, looking on at the people, wondering what the huge fuss was about. But I am young; I don’t understand what such a brilliant man Jonathan has been.
That night, I looked up at the velvet sky, at the stars that watched down upon me like a teacher staring down at her pupils. The land lay still, as only a gentle breeze lay awake, swirling clouds of dust along the track for its own satisfaction. As I lay upon the barn hay, the sound of footsteps suddenly alarmed me. I could here them getting closer, and closer. I could here a harsh, husky voice. Mumbling, in pain, in despair. I slowly turned my head to face the track, and to my surprise I could see the outline of a figure. He looked a tall man, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. I watched on, not daring to move, as he stumbled along the track. I could here the sound of liquid inside a bottle. My eyes were fixed upon the man, but I daren’t move.
The man hoisted his arm high into the air, like the mast of a ship, and took the bottle to his lips. After a few seconds his arms dropped, and the bottle clattered against the night-swollen track. The man started mumbling again, in pain. His cries began to get louder, and louder, and I closed my eyes tight until tears rolled down my cheeks. Terror streamed through my body like a gushing river.
A sudden silence then arose over the two of us, and I looked up from my hiding place. I could see him, hunched, just standing in the road.
Then, he collapsed…
I looked on. In disbelief, in excitement and in reflection. I could see him, walking along the dust-drenched path toward the green settlement were the daisies pranced in the morning sun. His presence electrified the whole village, as groups of people gathered around to help him in any way possible.
As the sprinkled rays of the mid-day sun shone down, warming the earth softly, I sat, perched upon the brick wall. His name was whispered throughout the streets, wafting along the gentle silence that rested upon the village. A large crowd of people gathered around, as he looked out into the distance; exhausted, yet with a warming smile melted upon his face.
He was a tall bloke, was Jonathan. A broad, strong character with a heart of gold. His long, sun-beaten hair swayed gently in the moist breeze. A pair of squinty pupils sat beneath his brow like two pinheads, and his husky voice was enough to silence the small gathering that awaited him. His leather jacket, glazed by the rays, sat upon his trunk-like shoulders and the ripped pieces of fabric from his jeans fluttered in the gentle winds like a bird’s wing.
He sat upon a pile of hay, and took his pipe from his pocket. And, with a cloud of smoke camouflaging his aging face, he told stories of his travels to the intent audience. They stared at him, hypnotised by his speaking. I stared out across the small audience, my view point from the wall giving me a birds-eye of the happenings. He spoke to them of how he travelled to the Welsh settlements of Fishguard and Pembroke, and what strange things he had got up to. Eyes were glued to his face as the people listened, not daring to move, not even breathe.
As he spoke, he took hold of his glass and poured himself a drop of whisky. The lines upon his face were deep, like blood wounds, and his harsh cough that tore open the peaceful atmosphere that lay before us were a dead giveaway he had been drinking too much. Jonathan had been through some hard times. But, he carried on, telling stories to the audience. The sky was bleached a beautiful blue, and all out across the land the sun’s rays brought happiness and a warm feeling.
After hours of talking, Jonathan finally stood up and walked out onto the dusty pathway. He looked exhausted and lifeless. His face was so pale, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. The people snapped from their trance, and ran over toward him, lifting him up and each one offering him a place at their home. I sat there, looking on at the people, wondering what the huge fuss was about. But I am young; I don’t understand what such a brilliant man Jonathan has been.
That night, I looked up at the velvet sky, at the stars that watched down upon me like a teacher staring down at her pupils. The land lay still, as only a gentle breeze lay awake, swirling clouds of dust along the track for its own satisfaction. As I lay upon the barn hay, the sound of footsteps suddenly alarmed me. I could here them getting closer, and closer. I could here a harsh, husky voice. Mumbling, in pain, in despair. I slowly turned my head to face the track, and to my surprise I could see the outline of a figure. He looked a tall man, and he struggled to move in a co-ordinated way. I watched on, not daring to move, as he stumbled along the track. I could here the sound of liquid inside a bottle. My eyes were fixed upon the man, but I daren’t move.
The man hoisted his arm high into the air, like the mast of a ship, and took the bottle to his lips. After a few seconds his arms dropped, and the bottle clattered against the night-swollen track. The man started mumbling again, in pain. His cries began to get louder, and louder, and I closed my eyes tight until tears rolled down my cheeks. Terror streamed through my body like a gushing river.
A sudden silence then arose over the two of us, and I looked up from my hiding place. I could see him, hunched, just standing in the road.
Then, he collapsed…