Creative Writing, Venue


They were walking to work. Unusually warm for an April morning, but they thought it felt so cold. To be exact it felt absolutely freezing. Yet, off came the coat, the jumper, the scarf until all that was left was a shirt and trousers containing a shell.

The other humans plodded towards the hive, otherwise known as the train station. They looked across each face. Every single one appeared bashed by continuous winds of change. Eyes squinted, hair matted, mouths sewn tight, bodies lifeless. They supposed that’s what happened when a whole country awakens to darkness and a high-flying indifference.

The journey continues. Chug, chug, chug (remember that old rhythm from happier times?) They see miles and miles of barren trees, one after another, then another and another.… Beautiful, they think, twisting and turning, each branch running into each other an interconnectedness almost like two people. Hugging….

Brought back to earth with a silent, cold hard stare from human number 1648593.

They remember. No beauty, not anymore. The train halts. Off they get. On they stride. All the way to misery.

They’ve got distracted, there is a café across the street. Its grey with big bounding windows. Full. There’s a strange vigour emanating from it. An energy. The sky opens but instead of rain I feel scores of songs and chatter pulsing down.

The pavement below me is cracked, like lightning has had the audacity to split yet another facet of life. Ants are ambushing the cracks; scattered but together.

I feel different.

I walk, hands outstretched, a bright ray hits my head. The café doors swing open. I sit.

‘Hi and welcome, what can I get you today?’

I’ve found my nest.

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About Author

Amy Bush

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September 2021
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