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The chains and bolts had rusted, and it made a squeaking sound as it swung. Nothing much happened in Budleigh – things just got old and rusty there. The grass under the swings was yet to be worn away, and the cheap, fresh stumps of timber that made up the hardly daunting assault course were darkened with dew. Two horses lay next to each other, both chained to the ground and lifeless. Apart from an unused toddler’s swing, with the extra pieces of rubber, that just about exhausted the park. One, easily reachable hoop stood at the back of a tiny ‘court’, a few metres away from a single peach tree.
In the middle of the park there were three apple trees that formed a complex network of intertwining branches not too high above head level. The ground was littered with mouldy apples and pears, and it was a wonder why the orchard was there at all, what with the state of the fruit. Across the road, The Dog and Donkey could be seen through gaps in the hedge, it’s golden letters shiny with the first morning light.
The arrival of a silver economy car broke what concentration we had. It pulled up near the swings where we were sitting and instead of getting out, the driver remained seated, and looked around. She continued to do this for a while, glancing quickly in our direction ever so often, before returning to gaze around elsewhere.
As we made our way towards the orchard, a thud sounded behind us. We turned to see the woman leaning on the bonnet of the car. She had curly, white hair down to her noticeably wrinkled neck – much more aged than her face appeared to be. She wore a pearl necklace, though it looked out of place against her bland clothes. She continued to look around, glancing at us and her watch every now and then.
James wandered over to the nearest tree and after only half a minute or so, he returned, his T-shirt pulled up to form a ‘basket’ he had filled with apples. The majority of the collection almost completely fell apart as he tumbled them onto the bench. Laughing, he picked up a whole one and threw it up into the air, watching as it came back down and exploded on the table. It was as though we all had the idea at the same time.
But before any mouldy fruit was thrown, a shrill yell from behind interrupted us. Turning, we saw the elderly lady walking purposefully towards us, frowning and angry.
“How dare you! Those apples are meant for the villagers! Pick them up!”
There was no arguing, so I bent down, and not knowing at all what she meant, started clearing the inedible fruit away.
As I looked up to roll a mouldy apple into the hedges, I noticed my friends disappearing around the corner of the park, behind the fence – and I decided to join them. Standing up straight, I threw what I had left in my hand into the bushes, and turned towards the gate.
“Stop that! Be careful! Hey! Where are you going?”
Without looking back, I walked away.
It was only yesterday, as the beady eyes of the Lesley’s cashier followed me around the stationary section, like some kind of eerie portrait, that I was reminded of that event at the park. It was this memory that made me leave, and walk that extra two hundred metres or so to the Post Office. Though as I made my way there, I knew it would happen again. Everything in this town was either old or rusty.
Mav.
[This is a short story based on one of many experiences my friends and I have had with people in our town trying to spoil our fun. It is written in the "show don't tell", ambigious style that writers such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez are known for - a style that aims to intrigue the reader, and so create a deeper level of understanding. Feedback welcome :D]
In the middle of the park there were three apple trees that formed a complex network of intertwining branches not too high above head level. The ground was littered with mouldy apples and pears, and it was a wonder why the orchard was there at all, what with the state of the fruit. Across the road, The Dog and Donkey could be seen through gaps in the hedge, it’s golden letters shiny with the first morning light.
The arrival of a silver economy car broke what concentration we had. It pulled up near the swings where we were sitting and instead of getting out, the driver remained seated, and looked around. She continued to do this for a while, glancing quickly in our direction ever so often, before returning to gaze around elsewhere.
As we made our way towards the orchard, a thud sounded behind us. We turned to see the woman leaning on the bonnet of the car. She had curly, white hair down to her noticeably wrinkled neck – much more aged than her face appeared to be. She wore a pearl necklace, though it looked out of place against her bland clothes. She continued to look around, glancing at us and her watch every now and then.
James wandered over to the nearest tree and after only half a minute or so, he returned, his T-shirt pulled up to form a ‘basket’ he had filled with apples. The majority of the collection almost completely fell apart as he tumbled them onto the bench. Laughing, he picked up a whole one and threw it up into the air, watching as it came back down and exploded on the table. It was as though we all had the idea at the same time.
But before any mouldy fruit was thrown, a shrill yell from behind interrupted us. Turning, we saw the elderly lady walking purposefully towards us, frowning and angry.
“How dare you! Those apples are meant for the villagers! Pick them up!”
There was no arguing, so I bent down, and not knowing at all what she meant, started clearing the inedible fruit away.
As I looked up to roll a mouldy apple into the hedges, I noticed my friends disappearing around the corner of the park, behind the fence – and I decided to join them. Standing up straight, I threw what I had left in my hand into the bushes, and turned towards the gate.
“Stop that! Be careful! Hey! Where are you going?”
Without looking back, I walked away.
It was only yesterday, as the beady eyes of the Lesley’s cashier followed me around the stationary section, like some kind of eerie portrait, that I was reminded of that event at the park. It was this memory that made me leave, and walk that extra two hundred metres or so to the Post Office. Though as I made my way there, I knew it would happen again. Everything in this town was either old or rusty.
Mav.
[This is a short story based on one of many experiences my friends and I have had with people in our town trying to spoil our fun. It is written in the "show don't tell", ambigious style that writers such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez are known for - a style that aims to intrigue the reader, and so create a deeper level of understanding. Feedback welcome :D]
Reloaded and Revolutions especially. The original is easy to get your head around compared to the second two mind-twisters.
Maverick42 wrote:
> FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
>
> It's what makes films like The Matrix so interesting.
PLEASE tell me you don't think this applies to Matrix II?
> FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
>
> It's what makes films like The Matrix so interesting.
PLEASE tell me you don't think this applies to Matrix II?
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
It's what makes films like The Matrix so interesting.
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
It's what makes films like The Matrix so interesting.
Stupid old wuman.
man you got lucky,glad it workrd out in the end
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
Why does it make you feel superior? :oP
Well at least that way if somebody says the story was actually crap, you can just say they didnt get it :o)
> I like stuff you don't get.
> It's the best kind.
Why does it make you feel superior? :oP
Well at least that way if somebody says the story was actually crap, you can just say they didnt get it :o)
I like stuff you don't get.
It's the best kind.
It's the best kind.
Thanks.
It's kind of supposed to be difficult to "get". If you get that.
It's kind of supposed to be difficult to "get". If you get that.
That was pure crap.
Haha, had you for a minute.
Actually though, I enjoyed it, but didn't quite "get" it it. Found it weird. But good.
Haha, had you for a minute.
Actually though, I enjoyed it, but didn't quite "get" it it. Found it weird. But good.
The chains and bolts had rusted, and it made a squeaking sound as it swung. Nothing much happened in Budleigh – things just got old and rusty there. The grass under the swings was yet to be worn away, and the cheap, fresh stumps of timber that made up the hardly daunting assault course were darkened with dew. Two horses lay next to each other, both chained to the ground and lifeless. Apart from an unused toddler’s swing, with the extra pieces of rubber, that just about exhausted the park. One, easily reachable hoop stood at the back of a tiny ‘court’, a few metres away from a single peach tree.
In the middle of the park there were three apple trees that formed a complex network of intertwining branches not too high above head level. The ground was littered with mouldy apples and pears, and it was a wonder why the orchard was there at all, what with the state of the fruit. Across the road, The Dog and Donkey could be seen through gaps in the hedge, it’s golden letters shiny with the first morning light.
The arrival of a silver economy car broke what concentration we had. It pulled up near the swings where we were sitting and instead of getting out, the driver remained seated, and looked around. She continued to do this for a while, glancing quickly in our direction ever so often, before returning to gaze around elsewhere.
As we made our way towards the orchard, a thud sounded behind us. We turned to see the woman leaning on the bonnet of the car. She had curly, white hair down to her noticeably wrinkled neck – much more aged than her face appeared to be. She wore a pearl necklace, though it looked out of place against her bland clothes. She continued to look around, glancing at us and her watch every now and then.
James wandered over to the nearest tree and after only half a minute or so, he returned, his T-shirt pulled up to form a ‘basket’ he had filled with apples. The majority of the collection almost completely fell apart as he tumbled them onto the bench. Laughing, he picked up a whole one and threw it up into the air, watching as it came back down and exploded on the table. It was as though we all had the idea at the same time.
But before any mouldy fruit was thrown, a shrill yell from behind interrupted us. Turning, we saw the elderly lady walking purposefully towards us, frowning and angry.
“How dare you! Those apples are meant for the villagers! Pick them up!”
There was no arguing, so I bent down, and not knowing at all what she meant, started clearing the inedible fruit away.
As I looked up to roll a mouldy apple into the hedges, I noticed my friends disappearing around the corner of the park, behind the fence – and I decided to join them. Standing up straight, I threw what I had left in my hand into the bushes, and turned towards the gate.
“Stop that! Be careful! Hey! Where are you going?”
Without looking back, I walked away.
It was only yesterday, as the beady eyes of the Lesley’s cashier followed me around the stationary section, like some kind of eerie portrait, that I was reminded of that event at the park. It was this memory that made me leave, and walk that extra two hundred metres or so to the Post Office. Though as I made my way there, I knew it would happen again. Everything in this town was either old or rusty.
Mav.
[This is a short story based on one of many experiences my friends and I have had with people in our town trying to spoil our fun. It is written in the "show don't tell", ambigious style that writers such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez are known for - a style that aims to intrigue the reader, and so create a deeper level of understanding. Feedback welcome :D]
In the middle of the park there were three apple trees that formed a complex network of intertwining branches not too high above head level. The ground was littered with mouldy apples and pears, and it was a wonder why the orchard was there at all, what with the state of the fruit. Across the road, The Dog and Donkey could be seen through gaps in the hedge, it’s golden letters shiny with the first morning light.
The arrival of a silver economy car broke what concentration we had. It pulled up near the swings where we were sitting and instead of getting out, the driver remained seated, and looked around. She continued to do this for a while, glancing quickly in our direction ever so often, before returning to gaze around elsewhere.
As we made our way towards the orchard, a thud sounded behind us. We turned to see the woman leaning on the bonnet of the car. She had curly, white hair down to her noticeably wrinkled neck – much more aged than her face appeared to be. She wore a pearl necklace, though it looked out of place against her bland clothes. She continued to look around, glancing at us and her watch every now and then.
James wandered over to the nearest tree and after only half a minute or so, he returned, his T-shirt pulled up to form a ‘basket’ he had filled with apples. The majority of the collection almost completely fell apart as he tumbled them onto the bench. Laughing, he picked up a whole one and threw it up into the air, watching as it came back down and exploded on the table. It was as though we all had the idea at the same time.
But before any mouldy fruit was thrown, a shrill yell from behind interrupted us. Turning, we saw the elderly lady walking purposefully towards us, frowning and angry.
“How dare you! Those apples are meant for the villagers! Pick them up!”
There was no arguing, so I bent down, and not knowing at all what she meant, started clearing the inedible fruit away.
As I looked up to roll a mouldy apple into the hedges, I noticed my friends disappearing around the corner of the park, behind the fence – and I decided to join them. Standing up straight, I threw what I had left in my hand into the bushes, and turned towards the gate.
“Stop that! Be careful! Hey! Where are you going?”
Without looking back, I walked away.
It was only yesterday, as the beady eyes of the Lesley’s cashier followed me around the stationary section, like some kind of eerie portrait, that I was reminded of that event at the park. It was this memory that made me leave, and walk that extra two hundred metres or so to the Post Office. Though as I made my way there, I knew it would happen again. Everything in this town was either old or rusty.
Mav.
[This is a short story based on one of many experiences my friends and I have had with people in our town trying to spoil our fun. It is written in the "show don't tell", ambigious style that writers such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez are known for - a style that aims to intrigue the reader, and so create a deeper level of understanding. Feedback welcome :D]