Through the grey dwellings and concrete havens he sped past and savoured the flavour of a city in twilight framed by lunar beauty. Eclipsing the sin that decorated the halls of abandon that he shot past, like a bullet from a smoking gun. Travelling by train past the terraces of terror and the redeeming people of such unfortunate populace, helped give the chap a healthy sense of perspective. He wore comfort on his sleeve and dressed buttoned up to the nines, grinning like a fisherman with a prize catch.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you faceless stranger for you are a blank canvas that I can bend into the shape of friend or foe, a yes or a no.’ He thought to himself, constructing poetry for each character on his regular country commute.
The carriage halted at its final destination in the still of night. The heat coaxed sweat from his every pore and it assaulted him with waves of perspiration. He unbuttoned his smoky burgundy knitwear and breathed in the sweet perfume of the beckoning green fields, and the crushed petals of flowers that were damp with nectar beneath his black leather boots.
Wondering home counting the stars, he was certain of where he was going but uncertain of his footfall beneath the muddy rural tracks.
The pleasantness of the evening willed his thoughts to prolong his wander and so he set off towards the petty delight of stonards hill, a familiar fairground of evergreens and serene dreams. The vast expanses of the open fields were framed by concrete and a children’s playground, which the young fellow climbed with glee. The blood of his younger years flowed through his hands, and thoughts of halfpenny ices and frilly pram bonnets were flickering through his mind. At the top of this toddler’s theme park was a small bench where he sat and pondered the riddles and rhymes of this space in its time.
His coarse denim blue breeches were spotless save a minute linear scar upon the knee, the result of a boyishly daring save, and the accompanying fall to the ground. He caught the ball.
‘Never see ripped clothes on a striker’ He spoke softly to himself, smiling a half moon grin as he did so.
He produced a small notepad, but struggled to articulate his thoughts and express them in written form. It was as though they were little steamboats sailing away from his head, and no sentence could anchor them in the port of the pages.
This seemed to trouble the fellow and drew a shade of sadness across his features, greying them with pencil lead.
His companion of the daylight, one Sambo Macaroon spoke comforting words on such matters, which were tailor made for our dear protagonist. Telling our friend that such predicaments are not unhappy instances by any means; any grand thought that is fleeting, has come from a great mind that is simply too busy giving life to new ideas to entertain old inventions. And yours is a great mind, my dear friend.
Comforted by this insight, He trod the familiar world-worn path towards his residence, embellished by the footprints of countless characters over the centuries.
‘Just who has trodden here before, and what became of them?’
He spoke aloud, catching himself by surprise at the volume of his own voice, and how refreshed and determined it sounded.
‘I know my own path, and I shall walk it across the bridge of my dreams.’
He found himself walking the main road to catch the sunlight coaxing life into the street, city gents fastening ties and starting cars, lonely housewives collecting milk bottles, and children running along in their uniforms to their schools.
One little chap had a battered football under his arm as he shuffled along in haste, and the most minor little rip in the knee of his breeches.
Our dear friend closed his eyes, and embraced the kiss of morning.
Our dear hero of the hour is one nineteen-year-old Ashenold Peccles.
His personality is jewelled by traits of sincerity, kindness and happiness without restraint, Generosity without question, and a listening ear without interruption.
He has the kindest iceberg smile you could ever hope to come across, whilst sailing your sea of thoughts.
