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journeys by amble youNG writers

Contents A Walk in the Woods by Molly Gordon The Journey Home by Robert Parker

This anthology was created in April 2019 by the New Writing North Amble Young Writers group and their group leader, Sarah Tarbit.

The Hidden Valley by Matthew Smith How to Cross a River by Lily Tibbitts

Amble Young Writers takes place in Amble Library and is free to attend for any young person aged between 12 and 19. Every Saturday during term-time, the group work with a professional writer to explore new styles and develop their talent for creative writing. New Writing North supports the development of writing in the North of England. We introduce young people to creative writing in its many forms, through our network of Young Writers' Groups and our long-term programmes in schools. ÂŠ The authors, 2019.

With thanks to: New Writing North Amble Library Sarah Tarbit LJ Ross Laurie Stevens Lenthall & Co

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever by Katie Wilson

A Walk in the Woods

A walk in the woods is always a good way to relax. The fact that I am dragging a body behind me should be irrelevant. It snags against a low hanging branch, dragging me to a halt. I tighten my grip on the burlap in my fist and tug a little harder against the weight. I hear my heart beat through the silence, as the trees hold their breaths, and the shadows stop their waltz. And then it slides forward, pushing the leaves on the ground to either side as it passes, like the bow of a boat cutting through the waves. The branch that was tangled in the cloth snaps, and the sound echoes through the forest and through the dark louder than any gunshot. The mist is heavy, wrapping around the tree trunks, curling, like so many beckoning fingers. Reflecting pure white from the full moon that was hanging somewhere in the sky above. I can barely see the next trunk in front of my face, and if I were to look back the way I have come, I would probably not be able to make out the scuffs in the ground from the dead weight in the sack. But there are some things that you just donâ€™t do in the woods at night. And looking behind you is one of them. You will think you hear all sorts of things in the woods at night: howling, and scraping, and scratching, and snapping, and screaming, and singing. But you must never, ever look behind you. Because once you start doing it, you will never be able to stop. And when you become the thing in the woods thatâ€™s watching, you become the thing that people hunt. 1

A Walk in the Woods

I ignore the winds, and the sounds of their gossiping as they fly between the trees. I ignore them when they blow a strand of my own hair in front of my eyes, I just flip my head to the side and carefully step over the gnarled and reaching roots of the tree to my left. I ignore them when they bite at my exposed hand that is stretched out behind me dragging the sack, I just swing my other hand around my back and take the sack in it, and drop the cold one into my pocket. The cuff of my shirt, which has been resewn so many times that it is more thread than shirt, catches on the zip of my jacket, and when I yank it free, a length of rust coloured thread comes away. It’s picked up by the wind and dances in front of my eyes. Slowly, my hand stretches out, testing the waters beyond the mist, and then I snatch at the air. Fingers close around nothing. I retrieve my fist. It’s damp now, sweat and adrenalin, I press the palm into my thigh and rub it clean, then shove it back into the almost warmth of my pocket. The thread vanishes, sinking into the dark, and I let it go. That is another rule for walking in the woods at night. As soon as you leave your path and get lost you are fresh meat. And fair game. My footsteps are steady, beating out a rhythm against the undergrowth. Each one feels heavy enough to warrant a drum beat, but the sound is almost completely masked by the spattering of grass managing to grow without sunlight ever touching it, and by the leaves that have been dropped and forgotten; leaves that haven’t been crisp in a long time, leaves that are starting to rot and wither, leaves that are far too tired to protest when the scuffed sole of my boots presses them into the soil. Before I left tonight, I picked a spot in these woods. It’s only a few miles south from a busy road, but at the same time these woods feel a whole world away from civilisation and the obnoxious normality of people on their commute home for the night. I left my truck on the hard shoulder there, for it to be found in the morning and towed away. Well, I say my truck. But it was a nice truck, scratched cherry-red paint, pipes old and patched with duct tape and one of the mirrors looked like it would only need a sigh in the right direction

A Walk in the Woods

for it to fall off. I didn’t say it was a valuable truck, or even a reliable one, just a nice one. It had a personality. I’m getting away from the point, I picked a spot before I started walking, chose a direction and a distance. It’s important to me that those sort of things feel right. Not just for me, but for the person I'm going to leave there. They say that in forests, shadows are souls of the things that have died and been forgotten, of things that are trying to cling to the world of the living. My point is, that when you are walking through the woods at night, you can never really be sure what you are stepping on, on who is buried under foot. The tree with the broken limb welcomes me to her property. Her roots are thick and old, and sticking out in every direction around her, like the patterns left when lightning strikes the ground. She is still shouldering my shovel for me, nestled in the same crease I left it an hour ago. I drop the sack against her too, and take up the metal handle. Its impressively smooth and cold after the burlap rubbing an imprint into my hands. And I get to work. I have all night, but I’d rather it did not take quite that long; I passed a 24 hour diner on the way here, and I fancy a coffee. Using my foot, I pry the sack over, it rolls, and then tips into the trench with a thump. The soil is thick when I press the sharp edge of the shovel into it, and it makes a horrible wet slap when it hits the body below. A smile touches my lips, and I start working with earnest. Moving the earth is a slow job, I try for an age to get the ground reasonably flat again, and to pack all of the dirt back into the trench. Being bent over the handle of the shovel, pushing my weight into the padded soil mound makes my back start to ache. I feel the pushing pain near the base of my spine, and the burn in the back of my thighs. But I keep going. I have to keep going. Right now, there is no rustling of trees and leaves, or whispering of winds. Right now, the forest is surveying me – things that live here are not accustomed to signs of life. But at any moment it could change its mind and decide that I do not belong here. So, I keep going. It takes me longer still to kick some leaves and broken twigs across the earthy floor, trying to make the ground over the trench look natural. As I work, I think of the chatter that will bark over a police radio in a few hours, with the sun peaking between the

A Walk in the Woods

trees, and sweeping away the shadows for hikers and the like.

A red pickup abandoned on the side of the road, with a broken wing mirror and no plates. My word, people will be so careless sometimes. No, it doesn’t look like anyone plans to return to it, but yes send a team out to look for lost hikers, just to cover our asses. For a moment, I ponder in my own head about getting a police scanner somehow; you never know when you should be on the lookout for something, or someone, that makes a bump in the night. And then I shake myself out of my thoughts and take a step back to check out my work. It is not bad, actually. The ground looks relatively undisturbed. I am fairly confident that I can leave and no one will find anything wrong. The dead weight will rest easy under the ground. Left in peace. *** The diner that I had passed earlier was one of those retro places, off the side of the road, just far enough from a town that it can still cling to how things were in the fifties, as though it had been plucked right out of the past. The linoleum floor is lain with black and white diamonds, and the contrast of the booth seats, covered with plush red fabric, is startling. Even the outside is brilliantly lit: floodlights throw out artificial daylight across the parking lot, casting an almost perfect circle around the lot, and inside every table has a freshly cleaned and pressed white tablecloth, and a candle in a little mason jar. There are chalkboards around the walls, shouting specials at me in a curling script, complete with little cartoon drawings of foods to decorate. The waitress spies me through the hatch leading to the kitchen, where she’s sitting on a counter top having a slow, sleepy sort of conversation with the chef. There are no sounds of cooking, or smells of frying food hanging in the air. Aside from the two of them, and now me, the whole place is completely empty.

A Walk in the Woods

dressed up like the fifties: a powder blue dress with a wide white collar, and a housewives’ apron hanging over her thighs that is tied around her waist. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a lopsided bun, and I guess that it must be coming to the end of her shift – either that or she wasn’t expecting any more customers before the sun came up – because thick strands of hair are hanging loose, falling out of their confines and down her neck. After taking my order, she heads back behind the counter, flicking on the coffee maker. The old thing clunks and rattles into life, the pipes singing as boiling water passes through them. And eventually, with a colossal hiss, steaming milk and water are thrown out of the spout and into the china mug she slid into place. The cup rattles against its saucer as she lifts it across to her tray and then moves to lift the covering off the cake stand. She presses the knife very deliberately into the pie and then lifts the slice; I can see the fruit, oozing red onto the plate, from where I'm sitting. The scent of freshly roasting coffee is now wafting through the diner, warming the air better than the heaters ever could. It fills my nose, battling the damp smell of mildew and bark that is clinging to me, in the hair on top of my head and the heavy folds of my coat. Despite being indoors, I feel the need to tug my coat collar up, so that it is standing upright, the top of the fold tickling my ears. A shiver runs down my spine, like the kind when you feel like you are being watched. The forest is watching me through the window. Past the waitress and the counter, past the kitchen hatch, and beyond the safety of the LED bulbs lighting the car park outside. The tendrils of mist are dancing on the border between light and dark, skulking in the shadows, deciding whether or not to pounce. Ducking back behind the tree line to wave at me. The forest has a taste for me and wants me back, it is not done with me yet. I lift up my fork, and stab it through the pastry.

She appears through a swing door to the left of the hatch. She is even

The Journey Home

The walk back from the observatory was always an uneasy one. Once all the scientists and stargazers had gone home, Lee would sweep up, lock up, and begin his journey. As an intern the duties of caretaker fell on him. And seeing as he didn’t have a car, he had no choice but to embark on the half-an-hour trek down the forest track. Of course, he knew that it had to be so far from any villages or towns to avoid light pollution, but in mid-winter when the skies were dark and the trees stood silent, closing him in, he couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable. This particular night, the feeling was somehow intensified. As he stepped out of the door and locked it behind him, he suddenly felt a long, long way from safety. He tracked the path with his eyes, a grey, rocky river winding its way through the sea of dark furrows. Tonight, everything was dusted with a glittering white. Lee’s throat tightened slightly. Of course, what Susan had been talking hadn’t helped, Lee thought as the white domes of the observatory faded into darkness behind him. She had been telling them about astrolatry, the worship of celestial bodies as deities. Apparently, in these forests and these hills, archaeologists had found evidence of that, of tribes sacrificing humans under the moon and stars. It had made Lee a little uncomfortable, he had to admit. And – Lee froze. 7

The Journey Home

Just then, almost masked by his own, he had heard footsteps on the gravelly track behind him. He swung his torch around, illuminating only his clouded breath in the air. Nothing there. He waited a moment. Then another. Nothing. Gingerly, he turned and continued on his walk. I’m just a little on edge tonight, that’s all, he thought. And besides, he had only been walking for a minute or so, he was very close to the observatory if he needed refuge from…something.

Then he heard it again. Something had moved. A clump of snow fell from a branch, obviously disturbed by something. He shivered in fear, and, fighting the urge to run as fast as he could, approached the tree-line. He shone his torch to where the movement had come from. The torch light cast long, dark shadows and peripheral darkness. Branches and snow, and…footprints. Lee gulped. Stepped away. Didn’t want to see where they led. But he was sure that there was someone in the woods.

Lee stopped again. A sound like a branch scraping clothing. The torch beam wheeled into the trees, his sweat cold on his skin. That time, he had definitely heard something. It’s a fox, or a badger, or a mouse. He turned again, and walked, markedly more hurried, down the path. The moon had brushed the billowing, dark clouds obscuring it, illuminating the forest in a dusk-like state. The extra light gave him more comfort on his journey.

“Hello?” he shouted out. There was no echo. No reply. His words were simply swallowed by the night. I don’t know how old those prints are, he reassured himself, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The snow fell last night, any number of people could have been here since then. But that doesn’t explain the noise. He strode briskly now, just wanting to get out. He heard something behind him again, something – a voice? But he didn’t turn, just began to run.

Five more minutes had passed by, Lee saw, checking his watch. They had been uneventful, and Lee’s chest began to rise and fall at a normal pace. A sign glinted dully ahead of him in the moonlight, pointing the way to the village. It was a strange place. He didn’t know what it was, the remoteness of the village and the consubsequent dark skies or simply the proximity to an observatory, but everyone in the village seemed to be an amateur stargazer. The bed and breakfast he was staying in had telescopes and proud, “took it myself ” photos of constellations hanging over beds like crosses. The small gallery had paintings of planets and nebulas, and star themed jewellery. Even the local pub had astrological themed photos hanging over its urinals. It was weird, the small village, with every resident gripped by a fascination with stars. He felt like an outsider in the village. Perhaps it was just the fact he was an intern, from somewhere else, just the fact he from the city. But with all the interest in space and stars, you would have thought the villagers would have welcomed him. Maybe it was the way they saw the stars. Lee had always viewed them as marvels, but marvels of science, amazing in their beautiful complexities, and the villagers seemed to see them as something deeper, something older and…even magical.

This is absurd. Why am I running? But as he slowed he heard more sounds behind and around him, so he ran again, ran as only someone who is being chased can. As he ran, he thought he caught fleeting glimpses, in between the trees rushing past, of figures running, keeping pace with him. The torch light jerked wildly across path and trees as Lee’s arms swung. He was sprinting now, his lungs gulping huge breaths of the cold air and his legs burning. Thoughts of his escape raced through his head. It could only be a short stretch to the road, which veered off towards the town through fields, out in the open. He would be safer there, his assailants would have nowhere to hide. From there, the distance to the village could be covered in a matter of seconds if he ran. But the forest track seemed to be endless, and Lee’s strength was beginning to fade, the adrenaline being replaced with cold, heavy dread. He had a horrible vision of countless people, swarming in the forest around him, knives glinting in the moonlight. He was so intent on escaping, on fleeing, that he almost missed the smooth tarmac of the road rising to meet the track. And the headlights of a car, sweeping towards him.

Lee scrambled to a halt, dazzled, and squinted forward at the car, which had jerked to a stop a metre in front of him, behind the headlights. There was

The Journey Home

The Hidden Valley

only the rumble of the car engine, and Lee’s heavy breathing. He heard a car door open, and a man got out of the car. Lee recognised him as Tony, the owner of the bed and breakfast. Slowly, his fear and paranoia seemed completely absurd, and even faintly amusing. “You all right?” Tony asked. “Yeah, yeah…I’m fine.” Lee said, smiling weakly. “Want a lift?” asked Tony, looking with concern at Lee. “Err…yeah, thanks.” Lee walked over to the car, and got in the passenger seat. Tony started up the engine. Lee sat back and let out a long sigh. “Seatbelt, if you don’t mind.” said Tony. Lee fastened it, and it tugged, tightly, across his chest. “These are a little tight.” said Lee breathlessly. The belt pressed his lungs. “Well, you know how it can be on these country roads.” said Tony, beginning to drive. Lee closed his eyes, not noticing the small nod that Tony gave out the window, into the darkness. And as Lee lay back, Tony smiled.

The Hidden Valley

We thought it was going to be a fun family trip out; none of us expected it to be so hard to find the place called the Hidden Valley. So there we were, driving along the road on a hot summer’s day following the sat nav’s directions as we passed countless other cars doing the same. When I looked out the window I could actually see the tarmac of the road melting under the heat of the blistering sun that was blazing down on to it. The directions had said that it should only take us about an hour or so to get there, but we had been driving aimlessly for much longer with no signs of us nearing our destination. The heat was almost unbearable, and even with the windows down it still felt like we were being slowly roasted in an oven on wheels. At last a sign appeared in the distance and we all braced ourselves hopefully, praying that this would lead us to the valley. However, as we got closer, we saw that the sign actually said that the road was closed and to take a detour, much to everyone’s frustration. The diversion took us through an area of forest and greenery that seemed

The Hidden Valley

Hidden Valley

to go on forever, until we finally emerged out on the other side of it. By this point we were all getting tired, hungry, and thirsty, so we ended up pulling in at a small nearby town for a rest stop, to refresh ourselves and decide what to do next because the trip to the valley had already taken us 2 hours with no end in sight. As we got out of the car though, we found that we had stumbled upon a village that was, well, absolutely mental to put it politely. We found that there was a festival in full swing and we had walked right into it. Crazy old women danced around and sang at the top of their voices, while smoke billowed from the many food stands surrounding around them. We were sure they were high on something. They started swaying towards us, so we hightailed it out of there and retreated to a safe distance as fast as we could before we were dragged into their crazy dance. Our frantic retreat had led us to an area that had a castle in it, so we decided to go and have a look around it so that we could say we’d at least done something. We walked over the crest of a hill to see... well, it was a castle from thousands of years ago! On a plain of green, a pile of stones was all that remained of the “amazing historical tourist attraction”. Annoyed at having to trudge all the way up the hill for nothing, my sister promptly named it the “Crappy Castle”. Frustrated yet again, we made our way back to the car defeated, though not before stopping for some drinks to get something out of the trip. Dejectedly, we drove back towards the B&B we were staying in, when suddenly we saw a sign that proudly exclaimed, “Hidden Valley on next right”. “Seriously?” my dad exclaimed. “We must have driven past this sign ages ago! How did we not see it?”. Unfortunately, however, because our valiant effort had taken us so long, the place had closed!

How to Cross a River

I don’t recall feeling any different than I did any other day. I went down to the bank, sat down on the warm sand, breathed in the scent of summer, stared longingly at the other side and opened up my notebook to write. But I couldn’t put pen to paper. The words were jammed, a dam in the river. All my mind could think about was getting across, seeing what beauty and stories hid just in the shadows across the flickering light that bounced off the water. My hands weren’t my own as I pulled off my boots and rolled up my jeans. I gazed at the distant bank. It had never looked so beautiful.

I remember the first time I tried to cross the river. From where I sat almost every day, staring from one sandy bank to the other, the other side looked like something out of a storybook, painted into being with swirling lines of fluid words. The trees had gnarled faces that watched my every move, the leaves were a dappled pattern of every shade of green, the breeze always brought the light scent of pine and earth and adventure. Each poem I wrote contained a little bit of that place. I’d tried before, of course, to get there from round the back, but it was impossible. Walls of towering brambles surrounded it, like a fairy-tale, like a secret garden. There were no bridges – I’d trekked for days along the shore to try and find one and got my legs thoroughly stung by nettles. For weeks I’d collected rocks to make a dam, but the stones were just washed away by the current, too small to make a difference. There was no way to get to the other side. Except the river.

The sun-bleached sand was scalding as I hopped the last few steps to the shallows. Singing in a language of hushes and trickles, the river beckoned me across, the water bitingly cold compared to the thick, warm air. I tried to determine how deep it got towards the middle, but it was so hard to make out in the glare of the sun. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. I was getting to the other side no matter what. I took one step; the river swirled and eddied around my ankles. I took another step. Then another. Then another. Then the ground disappeared from beneath my feet. My stomach dropped along with the rest of my body as I crashed into the freezing river. Just like that. One second there was rock beneath my feet and small waves lapping at my calves, the next there was nothing but bitter river water. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. For one terrifying second, I thought I was going to drown. My flailing limbs hit off of something and I almost screamed before I realised what it was; the rocky cliff I’d fell from. I scrambled up to air, gasping in the warmth as I pulled myself back up into the shallows, clambering to safety. It was a few seconds before I dared to look. I hadn’t noticed the drop into dark waters, and even now it was hard to detect. Shivering despite the warmth, my eyes ached with barely restrained tears. The other side of the river had never looked so distant. That’s when I saw the girl. She was perched on a tree branch hanging over the river, legs swinging like branches in the wind. With her hazel skin and willowy figure, I might’ve compared her to a wood nymph or a forest creature, but the simile was ruined by her garish red hoodie and raucous

How to Cross a River

laugh. “Were you even remotely looking where you were going?” Her voice wasn't the gentle sound of the river or the song of the breeze through the leaves, it was more of an accented cackle, “God, that was funny.” I scowled, making my way back up to the bank. Who was this girl? Didn’t she know I could’ve died? I told her as much, but she just rolled her eyes. “As if. You could’ve just swam.” she replied dismissively, “So, what were you doing? “What do you think?” I snapped, collapsing down onto the sand, still shivering. “You want to cross the river.” I looked up, surprised at her wistful tone. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Which was a wild understatement. I’d been dreaming of what mysteries the other side held for years, lying awake at night with stories weaving in my head. But it wasn't like I was going to tell her that. “How did you get across?” I demanded quickly before she could say anything else. The girl grinned, and then tilted forwards. I cried out as she swung towards the ground, falling from the tree branch, but she landed gracefully on her feet, still smirking at me. “I’m not telling.” I tried to hide my blush with an even deeper scowl. “What are you, five?” She just laughed, turning her back to me and beginning to walk away. “I’m Alyssa by the way.” Then she was gone.

I sat down in my usual spot, back against the sun-warmed rock, and got out my notebook. Putting pen to paper was like a switch off to the world- usually. With her there it was like the universe had focused down to her existence. “What you writing?” Alyssa asked, as if we had been friends for years. As if we were that close. Looking up, I tried to keep my voice casual. “Poems mostly.” “Some beautiful descriptions of me, I hope.” “I only write about pretty things.” She mock gasped, placing a hand to her heart and I couldn’t help but smile. It was like two puppet strings on either cheek, tugging at my lips. Inescapable. “You wound me. I’ll have you know I’ve been compared to a forest nymph before.” It was so close to what I’d first thought of her that it was slightly unsettling. I closed my book carefully. “Who are you?” “Sorry, I don’t give personal information to strangers.” She sighed as I glowered. “God you scowl a lot. Fine. What do you want to know?” “How did you get across the river?” Alyssa flicked her wrist and the movement was as fluid as the river. The stone hopped, skipped, bounced and skidded up the bank to just by my feet. It was unfairly impressive. “I thought I said yesterday.” Fortunately she seemed mildly amused instead of annoyed. “I’m not telling you. This place is my place, and I don’t even know your name.” I opened my mouth to say something about how it was my place too, then shut it again, instead opting for the safer route. “June. My name’s June.” “Full name?” “Juniper Elle Lawrence.” I tried not to snap. “What is this, an interview?” “Favourite colour?” “Green.” “Favourite animal?” “Fox. Seriously, what does this-” “Favourite food?” “Parma Violets, but-”

The temptation to call her back was overwhelming, but my pride got the better of me. I shoved my boots onto still sopping feet and trudged home, trying to get the whole experience out of my head. But falling in the water, seeing the girl on the other side… it was possible, there was a way across the river, all I had to do was ask her how. Which is why I was half-relieved, halfdisappointed when I went down to the river the next day to find her on the opposite bank, deftly skimming stones across the rippling waves. She hadn’t just been in my imagination. That was a good start. Now I just had to talk to her, which was going to be the hard part.

How to Cross a River

“Parma Violets?” She looked up incredulously. “All the wonderful foods in the world and you choose Parma Violets?” I glared. “What about you then? You know my whole life story now.” “If that’s your whole life story then you need to get out more.” I waited. Eventually she took a dramatic bow. “Hello everybody, my name is Alyssa Dahl - yes, like the author. My favourite colour is grey because I like to be edgy and different. My favourite animals are armadillos because I too would like to hide constantly.” That made me smile- again. “And my favourite food is not any Parma Violet filth, it’s garlic cheesy pizza bread.” My eyes lit up. “The one from the store on the street corner? Pepper’s Pizzeria?” “Hell yeah. The only place to be.” So you are real, I thought. “So you do live around here.” I announced triumphantly but she just rolled her eyes. “You said you’d seen me round here before. How often do you come here?” Alyssa sighed. “You know I was kind of enjoying having a casual conversation.” “Why did you only just decide to talk to me?” I’d put my book down by this point and for some reason I was standing up, which I didn’t remember doing. “You looked over the river every single day, June.” My name sounded strange on her tongue. “But you only decided to try and cross it yesterday.” She sighed again like the dramatic person she is. “In truth, I don’t know why I talked to you. Maybe I thought you might see things the same way I do.” That’s the closest I ever got to an answer from her. Every time I approached the subject again in the following weeks, she smoothly changed the subject or just left until I learned to avoid it. Until I just talked to her because I enjoyed it. I still yearned to cross the river, to reach the fantasy landscape of towering pines and undiscovered adventure, but I knew I had to gain her trust first. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I went down there day after day to talk to

How to Cross a River

her. I thought a lot about what she’d said, about seeing things the same way she did. Another unsolved puzzle, although I did begin to understand her more and more. One time we were laying on the river bank, each on our opposing sides, talking over the hum of the river and staring up at the tree-framed sky. We mostly talked, although sometimes we just sat in silence, me writing and her skimming stones or drawing patterns in the sand. It was still harder to focus with her there, but her presence was undeniably comforting. She looked over at me, hands fiddling with a small pinecone she’d found. “Don’t you just hate people?” I laughed a little. One thing we shared was a love of deep conversations. “Yes. Anything specific?” “I don’t know.” Alyssa sighed- she really did sigh a lot. “The fact people always want more until they get it, then they want the next thing. It’s just constant. Like, what about everything literally right in front of you?” I nodded, closing my eyes as the sun warmed my face. Alyssa kept talking and I savoured the words. Her voice may not have been the gentle sound of the river or the song of the breeze through the leaves, but it was poetic in its own way. She was there every time I came, and I began to come more and more, eating a hurried breakfast as I walked down and only coming back as the sun set. I wondered if she lived there, but it seemed so unlikely. What if she was trapped there by the walls of brambles? What if she was a woodland witch, living in a small cottage just through the trees? My mind dreamt and wondered every second I was away, until I reached the river again the next day and I stopped thinking about anything else but the moment. My routine was the same as normal that day. I grabbed a slice of bread, slathering it with peanut butter and hurrying out of the door. Trampling through overgrown footpaths and weaving around almost forgotten trails through the trees, I skidded down the bank to the river. But Alyssa wasn't there.

How to Cross a River

water. I stood and I searched. My eyes weaved through every branch in search of that familiar bright red hoodie, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Except… Breath catching in my throat, I jogged to the edge of the water, eyes glued to the shape in front of me, bobbing delicately on the water’s surface. A boat. Old, worn, blue paint peeling, appearing as though it would collapse under any weight. My heart jumped at the sight of it, then jumped again as I saw the note on its seat, pinned down with a river-smoothed pebble. With delicate fingers, I unfolded it, trying to make out Alyssa’s scrawling handwriting.

June, I have come to the conclusion that I can trust you, and you really actually do like the river (although still not as much as me). So I guess it’s time for you to see the other side, the one you wrote all those poems about. I thought a boat might be preferable to you trying to swim again. Alyssa. Without any hesitation, I dumped my bag on the sand, trying to clamber into the boat without tipping it over. The old wood creaked, but it didn’t collapse. My heart beat synced with the lapping of the waves. I wasn't sure I was breathing. Of course Alyssa hadn’t had the foresight to get paddles or even a stick of some sort, so I had to try and use my hands to pull myself through the water without the current taking me. It was near impossible, but I didn’t stop. I wasn't sure I could stop. My breath caught a little as the water got darker, the rock disappearing from beneath me, replaced by threatening nothingness. I tried to ignore the slight jolt of panic it still sent up my spine, instead focusing on the steadily approaching river bank. There were so many details I hadn’t been able to see before. The exact curve of the tree branches, the patches of wood sorrel hiding just behind the rocks, the way the waves carved almost a miniature cove underneath the roots of a tree, dipping into the

There was a scraping noise and I froze for a split second, letting my imagination get the better of me. But it was only a rock, planted firmly in the middle of the current. I leaned over, trying to push the boat off. I realised my mistake a split second later. The wood groaned again as I pushed at the rock, my whole body pressed up against the side of the boat. It was only a few seconds before the edge of the little rowing boat gave way. I tried to scramble backwards as it tipped, but only succeeded in tipping it the other way. There was a second, before I hit the water, that I looked at the other side and it seemed to look back. Then, the water swallowed me whole. Bubbles streamed from my mouth as I tried to swim to the surface. I wouldn’t panic. Not like last time. I wouldn’t. But there was no air above me- there was nothing but wood. The boat. I was trapped underneath it. My fingers grasped uselessly at the flaking paint. The cold numbed my every movement. Murky water hid any light. The other side, I had to cross the river! My clothes were heavy weights as my limbs tried to remember how to swim. My sturdy boots might as well have been bricks. I had to breathe. I needed air. The urge was so strong it was hard to think of anything else, to do anything else but desperately feel for the warmth of the air in the midst of unyielding cold. I couldn’t take it any longer. The bitter taste filled my mouth and I panicked. My lungs were filled with the river. I was going to die. I was going to drown mere metres away from the place I’d been dreaming of for as long as I could remember. Eyes beginning to flicker closed, I felt myself sinking. Then a strong, hazel arm grabbed around my waist and I felt myself rising. Up and up and up until the world gasped into life around me as I choked out a lungful of river water, sucking in air like it was a drug. I felt myself being pulled swiftly through the water until my legs hit off dry ground, until Alyssa turned me round to face her, staring with uncharacteristic concern into my eyes. I’d never been this close to her before. Her eyes were the same murky blue of the river, tinged with storm clouds. “June?” she shook my shoulders, “June, are you okay?”

How to Cross a River

I shivered but nodded. “Here.” She said, picking up her hoodie from where she must have left it on the bank. I gratefully put it on, not even thinking about her own dripping wet clothes. There was a silence as we both sat there. As I tried to get my thoughts together. I stared at the bank I’d come from. There was no river separating us now, and yet Alyssa had never felt so distant. “You made it.” She said quietly. “Welcome to the other side of the river.” That was what made it click in my mind. This was her fault, her stupid idea to send a rotting boat across the river. I stood up abruptly and she looked up at me. “You want to explore? I have to show you the…” She trailed off at my expression. “June?” “I want to go back.” My voice was as numb as my fingertips. Alyssa blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” My teeth chattered. “You want to go back? After everything? After wishing for this for all the years you stared over the river?” I didn’t meet her gaze, instead focusing on the mossy rock and tangled roots of the bank where my bag still lay, abandoned. The other side of the river had never looked so distant. “This is your fault Alyssa. Don’t you understand I could’ve died?” My voice broke, so I covered it up with a scowl. “I saved your life.” She snapped. “It’s your fault I needed saving!” Alyssa stood up, almost nose to nose with me. “You wanted to get to the other side? Well here you are.” I refused to back down. “Well maybe,” I snarled, “It isn’t all I thought it would be.” She stepped away, looking hurt for a second. Hurt and betrayed. Then her face returned to anger. “Well maybe you aren’t the person I thought you were.”

better of me. My pride always got the better of me. I watched as Alyssa strode away, disappearing in seconds without her hoodie. Something in my chest broke a little with every step she took. Forcing my head to turn, I stared resolutely at the other side. It had never looked so beautiful.

Turning to the trees, she stalked away. The temptation to call her back was overwhelming, but my pride got the

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever

Abandoned coastal road. The kind that twists and turns and meanders. As the evening light bled from a soft honeyed tone into more of a burnt orange, Haru Nekoma’s Vespa ran out of fuel. She felt the only right thing to do in this situation was, of course, to dismount, take a deep breath and beat the hell out of her scooter. Or at least she tried. Despite her clunky black boots, the scooter kicked back and damn, it hurt. Hopping up and down, clutching her now probably broken foot, Haru cursed her past self that forgot to stop off for fuel. She cursed her present self, too, because kicking her scooter wasn’t the brightest idea she’d had all evening. The girl watching this display unfold from the sidelines, Eleanor Bradler, was her passenger. Sort of. Eleanor had gone for a peaceful walk along the coast, when suddenly she realised she’d been walking so long that was most definitely lost. Peaceful 27

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever

had turned quickly into oh god, I’m lost forever now, aren’t I? She’d been trying to remember which mushrooms weren’t poisonous (never mind that mushrooms didn’t even grown around here) when a girl on a bright yellow scooter slowed to a crawl beside her. Eleanor could hear The Pillows blaring from her headphones. She was listening to it really loudly. The girl had offered to give her a lift, and since Eleanor didn’t like the idea of being totally lost in the dark, not to mention mushroomless, she accepted. That was about ten minutes ago. Now, Eleanor was standing by the side of the road watching Haru get beaten by her own scooter. Eleanor sighed. “Are you kidnapping me? Is this what this is?” “What?” asked Haru through the pain, still jumping up and down. “You know, the classic nab a person on an abandoned road, pretend to break down then knock them out and throw them in a sack?” She crossed her arms over her chest as if smug about uncovering Haru’s supposed masterplan. “No,” She replied, finally standing still. “I’d have been more straightforward about it if I was. I’d have been all like, hey does this cloth smell like chloroform? And spoiler alert, it would’ve been totally drenched in it.” Haru spoke fast, so fast that Eleanor wished there was a subtitles option. “Okay. Wow, that was really specific, but I’m gonna overlook and ask what do we do now?” Haru scratched her head. “Uh, I guess we walk to the nearest gas station, I think there’s one a few miles from here.” “So, it’ll just be us, the two of us, alone, total strangers, walking along as it gets darker and darker?” Eleanor was obviously freaking out, her arms clutching her stomach, voice all jittery. “Well yeah,” said Haru, as she took the handlebars of the Vespa and began to wheel it along. “Unless you want to wait for someone else to come along and offer a ride, but that’d entail standing all alone by the side of the road, and then you might actually get kidnapped.” Eleanor’s eyes widened a little bit. “Walking’s fine.” She said, falling into step with Haru.

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever

The sun was setting, glistening a bright white light on the ocean to the left of them. A golden glow covered everything. “I mean, we could try small talk only to make things even more awkward.” Suggested Haru, looking straight ahead. “Oh, god no, small talk is worse than no talking at all.” “I know, all that talk about the weather. It’s like yeah, the sun’s on fire, the ocean is flooding, we get it.” “So dumb.” Nodded Eleanor. “I’m good with silence.” Said Haru. “I’m glad we agree, then.”

“It’s not like I put a ban on it or anything. Just that talking in general is gross, but now I have a question unrelated to the weather so it should be not as terrible.” “Okay, fair enough.” Said Eleanor. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t know what it means.” “It’s ‘crushing loneliness in Japanese.” Replied Haru. “How do you know that?” “I’m a nerd.” “Ah.” Eleanor looked at the sky, squinting slightly as the light cut into her eyes. “So, uh, is that what you feel?” She asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. Haru seemed to think on this for a moment, scrunching her nose up, in thought. “I’m not sure... Probably. Maybe.” She looked at Eleanor, who was looking intensely at her, probably wanting an actual answer. “Sorry. That didn’t make much sense.” Haru quickly averted her gaze, glancing down at the ground. Eleanor wanted to say, It’s okay. You don’t have to make sense all the time, but the thought of actually saying it out loud made her nerves jitter. Instead, she settled for, “How’s your foot?” “Pretty numb now.” Said Haru.

So there was a kind of silence. Haru had taken out her headphones, so Eleanor could no longer hear the swampy guitar. Crickets chirped from the nearby grass, though, and the waves crashed softly into one another. Eleanor kicked a pebble. She smoothed down the pleats in her skirt. She noticed how the collar of Haru’s shirt was almost razor sharp. It looked very ouchy, she thought. She began to wonder what Haru had been doing around here. Before she’d gotten lost, it was pretty dead, with very little around. Eleanor considered asking about it, but the idea of giving into small talk made her shudder. Ten more minutes of the cricket orchestra and wave crashes passed. Haru felt weird. Because I’ve essentially picked up a stranger, right? That has to be it. She watched as Eleanor walked alongside her, taking big strides, swinging her arms a little every now and then. She looks very determined, as if on a noble quest somewhere, thought Haru. She was momentarily hypnotised by the way Eleanor’s bobbed hair bounced with every step, the way it seemed animated, and stuck up in every direction, as if she was constantly alert. The way it curled around her ears. Then, Haru found herself itching to ask Eleanor something. It was bubbling up, a geyser within her. Haru spoke up. “Do you know what, ‘hitori bocchi’ means?” The geyser exploded. “I thought you said we couldn't talk?” Asked Eleanor, with a glance over to her.

A moment of quiet passed. They continued to walk along. Haru felt the words stacking up inside her again. Word jenga. “I remember this one winter when I was like fifteen, and it snowed in my hometown. Up to your knees almost.” She risked a glance at Eleanor, who was looking back at her again, this time with a small smile on her face. Haru continued. “A bunch of us from the neighbourhood were playing hide and seek, so I went out into the woods by our house. There was this big clearing you had to cross to get to them, though, so I was walking over it when I tripped and fell. Then, I was laying there on my back in the snow staring up at the grey sky, and everything was so cold and so quiet.” She paused for a moment and looked up at the sky. A breeze swept her hair across her face. She went on. “You know that kind of silence that comes with snow, right? It covers everything, and it felt like it was

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever

covering me. It was just me laying in the snow and no one was there to help me up or make sure I was okay or anything. I remember being really scared for almost no reason, or at least that’s what it felt like at the time. I think that was the first time I thought, ‘so this is what loneliness feels like, huh?’ It was just me and the cold.” “So what did you do?” Asked Eleanor. “I got up, went home and had a hot chocolate with, like, fifty marshmallows. As you do.” Eleanor nodded. “Of course.” “But sometimes,” Haru’s voice sounded far away. “It feels like I never got up. It feels like I’m still in that clearing laying in the snow, alone.”

her knees when Haru caught up to her, Vespa in tow. “I have never seen anyone so happy to see a gas station in my entire life.” Said Haru, leaning against her scooter. “Yeah, I know…” Eleanor panted. “It was weird. I now know how dogs feel when they see squirrels.” Haru fueled up her Vespa. “Okay, this bad boy is officially filled up. I’m gonna go pay, I’ll be right back.” “Hey. Here.” Eleanor handed her a few crumpled dollar bills from her pocket. She smiled at Haru’s slightly confused look. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me a lift, or at least you tried to. So, uh, thanks. Now go pay or they’ll think we’re stealing from them.”

The sky had bled to a dusky purple. From behind the clouds, the sun emanated a golden light, giving the clouds a shimmering outline. Eleanor, the Vespa and Haru’s shadows were long and stretched out on the ground beneath them as they walked along. “For me, it’s the stars.” Said Eleanor, clasping her hands behind her back. “What do you mean?” Asked Haru, tilting her head a little. “I’ve never really made a connection to any particular individual, and it’s not that I don’t have the desire to, it’s just that I don’t ever think it’s going to happen. That’s both terrifyingly lonesome, but also kinda comforting. I’m me and that’s okay. I’m happy. But...” She paused and scratched her head, searching for the right words. “But the stars are already dead when I look at them and no one else knows I’m looking at them either. It’s like I’m almost not here at all sometimes. It freaks me out.” She felt her face heat up. “Sorry. I was monologuing.” “No, it’s okay. Stars are basically space ghosts, it’s spooky, so I get it.” Reassured Haru. Eleanor was about to say something, when she caught sight of the gas station up the road. It’s neon lights gave out a soft teal glow. “Is that-” “Hell yeah it is.”

She was sitting on the curb, watching over the scooter when Haru came back out holding two instant noodle cups. Haru sat down next to Eleanor and gave one of them to her. “You bought me noodles?” Eleanor asked, her voice full of warmth. She was smiling. “Technically you bought yourself some noodles as well as paying for a stranger’s noodles and fuel.” “You know we can’t eat these now, right? We need hot water.” Said Eleanor, glancing at the instructions. “This was the only thing they had that I’d even consider eating. Have it later.” “Okay, well, cheers, I guess.” Eleanor bumped her pot of noodles against Haru’s as if they were wine glasses. “Yes, cheers indeed. What are you doing sitting here by the way?” Asked Haru. Eleanor looked slightly sheepish. “I called a cab. It’ll be here in a little while. My folks will be wonderin’ where I am is all.” “Ah.” Haru stumbled over her words. “I’ll wait with you.” They listened to the flickering of the lights for a moment. “So, I’ve came to a conclusion. You want to hear it?” Asked Eleanor, breaking the silence. Haru turned to face her. “Yes, tell me.”

Eleanor practically ran there. She was out of breath with her hands resting on

A Brief Musing on Being Alone Forever

Eleanor turned the cup of noodles around in her hand as she spoke. “I’ve decided, ever so humbly, that life’s pretty stupid.” Haru laughed, and it sounded to Eleanor like the piano music that would play in a tavern at the end of a western movie. It had a jaunty tone. “That’s one damn fine conclusion you’ve got there.” Haru said. “Why thank you. I’m pretty happy with it myself.” Eleanor nodded. “You know,” Haru began, "We feel everything and it hurts. We feel nothing and it hurts, still. You’re right, it’s stupid. But it’s okay. Because you never know when you’ll find something that makes the weight you carry inside you a little less heavy.” “I can toast to that.” Said Eleanor, lifting up her cup of noodles once more. She noticed something written in black marker pen on her noodle cup. “What’s this?” She asked. Now it was Haru’s turn to look sheepish. “Oh, it’s just a random assortment of numbers and maybe if you put them into your phone and dial, I might happen to pick up. This way,” Haru went on, sanding up. “You can tell me when you’re looking up at the stars. I’ll look up too. Or some crap like that.” Haru’s face bloomed into a smile as she said this. Eleanor smiled back. “Alright, and if you fall down in the snow, you tell me. I’ll come help you up. Or, you know, some crap like that.” Haru gestured up the road. “Your cab’s here.” It was making its way along. Eleanor stood up and watched as Haru stored her noodles safely inside the mini compartment under her seat. As she turned the keys, the engine came to life. And as Haru hopped on and was about to drive away. “Hey.” Said Eleanor. Haru looked back over her shoulder. “Thanks. For um, the noodles.” Haru smiled again and nodded. “See you, hitchhiker.”

Generously supported by LJ Ross

Journeys: Amble Young Writers