This is the Place Where

This is the Place Where

I think I should start sharing the short bursts of writing I do at the Lakeside Writers. The last session looked at the importance of place. This is the result of a free writing exercise that had to begin with: This is the place where…

 

We drew on personal experiences…

 

This is the Place Where…

 

This is the place where I was a child.

I brought ice cream from the man over there.

I played on those swings.

There used to be a roundabout thing over there but I think too many kids cracked their heads open.

 

This is the place where I was an adult.

I fucked my boyfriend in that group of trees over there while ice cream was sold, children played on swings and heads were cracked open.

That was the first time I did it outside.

It wasn’t very pleasurable, romantic or practical.

 

This is the place where we went after school.

The primary there and the secondary there.

I was there after school.

The cool kids were smoking cigarettes there during the day, in that group of trees where I fucked my boyfriend.

 

This is the place where I walked our dog.

He would shit where he wanted and I’d pick it up in a cheap thin bag fearing for my fingers and sleaves.

I’d always try to find the dog a stick in that group of trees where I fucked my boyfriend.

 

This is the place where knees were scrapped.

The hill was the right angle to get a decent speed on anything with wheels.

I never scrapped my knees.

I’d play hide and seek with my brother in that group of trees where I fucked my boyfriend.

 

This is the place where rumours started, grew and fell.

There’s rumour this will all be houses.

And there’d be no more groups of trees for 17 year old girls to fuck their boyfriends.

I’d miss buying ice cream.

I’d miss the swings.

I’d miss the hull.

I miss my dog.

I certainly don’t miss that boyfriend I fucked in that group of trees. 

 

 

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