United Kingdom

"To see the world, things dangerous to come, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. That is the purpose of life."

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Message from Writer

Eighteen-year-old girl nursing a deep adoration of classical literature, world mythologies, and world history. Devoted to languages, coffee, house plants, and vikings. Hoping to make a mark on the world.

Funeral for a Dream

February 1, 2018

PROMPT: Solastalgia

In the sun-drenched wake of the three-thirty bells, we found ourselves in a field of gold and jade. It was bordered by gentle oaks on one side, mischievous birches on another, and the red bricks of our school on the last, a school that had stood since Victorian times, a school whose corridors twisted like the tunnels of a rabbit warren, a school that swept us up in gargantuan arms and nurtured us until the cusp of maturity. I adored that school. And that field. I adored the conker-tree whose autumn bounty provided the pockets of our book-bags with enough dust and dirt to last us until spring. I adored the music house with its windows blacked out by wooden boards and the half-humoured rumours whispered on an October evening - the Beauregard House is haunted by the kids who were bored to death by Miss Crews, the Beauregard House has a monster under its floorboards, the Beauregard House is alive and eats Year 2s who trespass in its garden. I adored every moment, from indoors play during a dreary January rainstorm to picnicking in checkered green dresses and the old oak's shade on a July afternoon. 

How was I to know that it wouldn't wait for me to return?

How was I to know that the castle would fall, ripped apart by cranes and trampled into the concrete by mud-streaked bulldozers?

How was I to know that they would take a wrecking ball to my classroom and tear up the whispering walls of the Beauregard House?

They have replaced my youth with money. They have churned the roots of the singing birch trees and sent the ghosts of my playground crushes to their delicate graves, and they have replaced them with a garish monument to cold cash and modernism. There is blood on the tarmac of their decadent new playground, blood of murdered memories and the ghosts of sad teens who are choking to death on their own nostalgia. There is no happiness to be found in the corpse of a childhood and there is no love to be bestowed upon the executioner's heart.

No seed sown in that poisoned earth will ever be as wonderfully, recklessly, hopelessly free as I once was.


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  • February 1, 2018 - 12:48pm (Now Viewing)

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