Creative Writing: Opening

The long drive on the Friday night finally draws to an end as the old Hilux rolls around the last bend through the Lewis Pass track. The truck jerks to a stop and the warm summer breeze wisps through my hair as I stretch out my stiff legs. Stepping onto the ground my legs are almost engulfed by the long grass, due for it’s once a year haircut.

Our small simple Bach stands in the foreground, surrounded by dense manuka bush. The sun is beginning to set as Hooter sprints around the Bach, darting in and out of the trees searching for terrified rabbits, like a madman who’s lost his marbles. The Silvia tops stand silhouetted against the gold and pink sky. It would be absolutely perfect if it wasn’t for the black clouds of blood thirsty mosquitoes swarming around, looking for their last vampire sucking of the day.

Inside, free from miniature flying count Draculas the musty smell of dried lavender lingers through the undisturbed air. Upstairs into the loft above, the last few streaks of sunlight filter through the net curtains and stream down the laser beams, highlighting the wandering dust. A dozen or so brightly covered beds are perkily arranged like a jigsaw puzzle around the mismatched room.

Down in the kitchen a fantail perches on the window sill chattering away her last song of this gorgeous summer evening.

Yet in the winter, it’s a different story. Arriving late on a Friday night becomes more of a nightmare then a holiday. You stumble up the uneven path which just happens to be a channel for the ice cold wind to roar down. Scrambling onto the old wooden deck and impatiently waiting for the right key to be found. Once inside you are now out of the arctic wind but the shelter that the walls and ceiling hold do nothing to stop the bitter chill coming through. The thin red line of the old Bach thermometer barely even makes the first marking, five below zero. The cold black embers in the old log fire are stirred around. With the help of splintered kindling, from crumpled paper and a box of ‘Rolleston Inn’ matches, a small flickering flame is lit – but being so small and petite, the flame holds no warmth.

Through the trap door upstairs, the howling wind blows a loose sheet of iron on the roof. The beds are all sagging and even the usually bright covers look dim and old. Down stairs in the kitchen, all that sits on the window sill now is an eerie stillness of cobwebs and dust.