Bec

MMPS The descent of the hill is steep, a slope carpeted with lush grass and daisy-weeds. It rolls out onto a little field of grass and trees, in the middle a triangular play area, with grey equipment. I sat by the old oak in the corner, with fresh air caressing my face. The giggles and screeches of laughter cascaded down the hill from the oval, and are carried on the gentle breeze. I’m not alone. Beside me, my friends goof around, making fools of themselves. They don’t care. But I just sit here, eyes wandering this area, a huge part of me that I’d soon be leaving behind forever. Sadness, 3rd person It was all he could do to get himself into bed. He lay there shaking for hours. He couldn’t face it. He couldn’t admit it to himself for even a second, because then reality would crash in. The weight of the world would be on his shoulders, and his final strand he had been clinging to, would break. He’d plunge into meaninglessness, for all his eternity. All that was left was to sit and weep. Anger, I’m leaving. I stared at her dismally. She was leaving me, after all these years together. I couldn’t begin to contemplate the rage she was feeling, but to push her to this, it must be profound. Writing camp, 2010

A trip of wonderment. The weather was a fantastic rollercoaster; snow, shine, rain, we had it all. Cabins were scorched, friends made house calls, and stories were woven out of magic and imagination. At nights we were dumbfounded by what our fellows had created, and, in turn, wowed others with our tales. Visits were made to the graveyard, where we honoured the dead and gave them life stories. We struggled with fire, but no-one could walk away from a camp like this without a sense of pride.