CREATIVE WRITING
F I C T I O N Remembering a fond winter Sam Gordon Webb (Year 13) He was the only traveller here. His urge for water lessened. His appetite dampened. He rested. He seemed to be searching for something, too. The man’s feet pressed against the hot carpet, propping his body forward, observantly. Some distant memory approached. Some moment from his past, that quickened, as it grew. It arrived. One winter’s day. The man was small, young, and innocent. A blizzard, the warmth of home; his mother’s soup, his father’s fire. Winter, at home. He could see it now. Farther east than anything; far away, and yet closer. Reachable even. He could feel this memory, as intense as the sun that glistened vigorously. He wasn’t alone, anymore. A friendly memory cuddled him. He rested on his past for hours, his body still red, hot, sizzling, and yet enticed by what he had seen; what he had remembered. He turned his engine on and drove away, slowly, reluctantly. His car baked. His arms still raw and tender. He passed another sign that read thank you for visiting, in fat brown, all capitals; childish. The sun had fallen beneath a heavy bush, and the intolerable heat had died. He opened his window. A thin breeze passed, bringing a welcome coolness. He merged with all the other sizzling red cars on the carriageway, travelling west. Still, others travelled east, far enough to resemble a field of white snow. Near enough to be quite dazzling, moving towards him. Still passing.
T he man could see the cars passing east, a thick flurry of light spasms in his windows, which were deadly hot. It was June. Heat stinging him, roasting his eyes, hands, the bones beneath. He braked, harshly. His legs ached; even his ankles felt like they were being fried in boiling oil. An impotent traveller heading West. He needed a break. Tiredness Kills. He moved to the left lane, taking the exit that would give him time to rest; to eat; to drink. The man’s throat burned. He had no water left. He’d run out of sweat. Most days he’d survived well. He’d eat a ham sandwich; thick cheddar, thin ham, crushed in some white bread; simple, yet blissful. The exit arrived. Rest and refuel was the sign in dark purple. He felt like he was pushing his car up a mountain. The car was pushing harder. He made it. Just. This place was different. A sign read closed, another, turn round. Something was pulling him closer; a small black building, square, with reddish writing scraped onto its peeling roof, which sloped sharply; a bleak sight against the blueness and redness of the sky and sun. He moved his car, gently, towards it, curiously leaning forward. Nothing else mattered. He drove around it, once, and found no entrance. Even the windows were black. No sign of life, amidst the heat. He braked, softly, with the tip of his toes, on bare concrete that felt bitter and grainy as the car moved. It stopped.
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