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Diggers Rest: A Fictional Narrative

666 Words3 Pages

He was dead, and dead when the police found him. Blue and red lights penetrated the black of the bleak evening and men conversing in hushed tones, brushing blood-stained flour away to reveal the body. A yellow beam appeared, revealing the dust rising over the disturbed shack. A cockroach scurried across the floor, spending a split-second in the spotlight before continuing on into the darkness. A group of paramedics came in with a stretcher and carried him away. — — — The warm, humid afternoon annoyed Alan as he trudged to the bus stop. When he arrived, the bus tracker showed his bus was cancelled. He sat on the hard, plastic bench and thought aimlessly. Suddenly, a flush of excitement flew through Alan's body and filled it with bright energy. He looked at the tracker again, and route 180 to Diggers Rest was departing in four minutes. His Go card, as he knew, was valid to travel into town, but also out, too. He loved visiting his grandma. …show more content…

He sat in the back seat, dreaming of his grandma's farm. He imagined himself as an child, walking home and seeing Benny dash out the homestead and leap on him and lick him. He could see vineyards stretching to the horizon, and the Sun coming down to sleep on them... “Diggers Rest next stop. Change for Blactown.” Alan got up, grabbed his pack and hurried to the door. They opened with a wheeze, and Alan stepped out of the bus. A quiet whistle accompanied the breeze, which was causing the gum trees to casually sway, the leaves occasionally swishing quickly, with a gust. Alan walked along the pavement, stepping around potholes. His grandma's farm was unmistakeable. Hanging on one side of the gap in the corrugated iron fencewas a grey, ripped tyre. It surrounded a tattered, peach-coloured signboard, which, after brushing off the dust, Sean could see it read, "Roser's Fields Vineyards". He went in, swatting the numerous blowflies that found pleasure in pestering

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There was no chattering or chirping of birds; no growling of bears and no chuckling of contented otters; instead, the clearing lay desolate and still, as though it never wished to be turned into day. The only occupants were rodents and spiders who had set their home in the dank, forgotten shack. From its base, dead, brown grass reached out, all the way to the edge of the tree-line, unable to survive in the perished, infertile soil that made up the foundations of the house. Bird houses and feeders swung still from the once growing apple trees, in the back garden, consigned to a life of

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