creative writing

It is a winter morning, most houses are still asleep as the sun begins to break through the horizon. The beaming sun illuminates the ice crystals of frost settling down on the ground below creating a chilled white world. The little street was quiet despite being filled to the brim with frozen cars. The line of small boats began its early morning march from the park ahead to the nearby crystal lake.

Look. Beyond the skinny street and beyond a bare section, a creek is trickling down through the cold world to empty itself into the nearby lake. Steam is rising off the lake creating a thin cloud floating above. The reflection formed on the lake below looks as if it is a piece of artwork from Leanardo de Vinci. Above this cloud, the upper mountains are rising through to stand boldly on display. Look, the frost sparkles like the many stars in the sky. The last embers burn out and settle in the fireplace the last reminder of the fire that raged so intense. 

It is a Sunday morning. Fantails, Tuis and Bellbirds all remained silent in respect of the cold morning. Illuminating sunlight broke down from above to bonce off the cold icy mirror below to create a bright white landscape beyond the house. Time moves forward. Low hanging cloud has given way to a baby blue sky and below the full extension of the lake is shown. Stretching on and on, morphing into the mountains that are now fully revealed with nothing to hide there awe-inspiring might. Trees that once look so huge and strong are now reduced to a skeleton of their warm-weather self’s. the pines are standing in bold display. they stand tall to show off their one of kind year-round coats. Small boats are resting on the motionless lake tied in place waiting patiently for their owners.

Feel. Sparkling white blades of grass collapse underfoot. Frozen air washing over the skin like coolant in an engine. Fingers tingle as if the gloves poke from all angels. Feel the warm jacket encompassing a cold body. The phone in the pocket constantly pokes my stomach like a little kid fighting for attention.  the flapping hood around my neck is a flag in the wind. straps pulled down on my shoulders reminding me of the heavy content on my shoulders. feel the shoes on pedals sliding up and down the pedals.

Listen. The chain squeaks under load while the pedal moans of a tormented life but still you push on. Wind whistles through your hair as tyers squirm as the bike dances up the track through the deserted streets. Onwards you ride into a flow of people following the winding paths towards gates. You walk your bike into school and push the squeaky tire into the solid rack. The quiet. It’s gone. Replaced by the constant chatter sounding as loud and constant as a flock of geese. You walk into school, and through the maze of endless corridors and fields. As you arrive at your destination the bell sings it’s repetitive song. Class has begun.