Leaving

 A little something done to a prompt from another member of our little writing group - people whose creativity and support are most excellent to share at any time, but certainly during another Covid lock-down.........  the prompt was one word - "Leaving" - to be done as a single page, and, as such prompts always do, produced five very different approaches.  This was mine....

 

LEAVING:

When he left, he hadn't thought he might be leaving forever – that what he was leaving behind would not, one day, offer him familiar comforts upon his return home, and those he was leaving would not be waiting to warmly welcome him into their arms. Now, so many years later, he wondered how much of that long ago life would be left, should he find his way back to the place in which he had been formed.

The welcoming arms were gone, he knew – wrinkled, then withered, and, finally, crumbled into dust; only the leavings of memory remained, thin and faded and comfortless. What was left of his childhood home had been, the letter said, left to him, though how much of those past comforts might be left by now was questionable. The letter carried a date from a year left far behind; it had traveled, and waited, and travelled again – lured on in pursuit of its beneficiary by tales and wild rumours left in his wake, left in the care of someone who longed to see him again, passed on to fresh hands as that hope faded and died, time and again, down the length of a turbulent decade.

Had some recipient of the letter been prescient in their choice of place and person for its next destination, or had he somehow doubled back on his own tracks, and met it coming after him? The date, when he finally opened it, untouched by any sense of its possible significance, left him momentarily stunned, and then amused. Its contents, those few dry, terse, officious paragraphs, had left him empty of breath, heartbeat, and feeling. How long had he sat there, unaware of the world, before the senses that had left him so suddenly returned in a wave of pain and disbelief.

How had that time passed so quickly? How could he have not returned when he was needed? Why had he not kept himself informed? The answer came quickly, in the calls and laughter of his team mates, the revving of engines, and the clatter of luggage and equipment. His comrades were almost ready to leave this little oasis of safety and satiety in pursuit of the next adventure, and he would be leaving with them, no matter what the letter in his hands had to say. Whatever had been left him in that missive was from the past – the leavings of a life he could never return to, even if he wanted to.

Boots clattered down the stairs outside his room, and the door shook under the knocking of a gnarled fist. He let the letter slip from his fingers and left it to curl and blacken in the flames of the fireplace as he shouldered his gear and left the past where it belonged.

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Communal Writing.

Communal Writing.

Long ago, and far away from my misty, soggy, mountain home, I lived and worked in a community that was sprawled sparsely across ridges and valleys that were generally dryer and hotter than here. 

The Valley was regarded by its local council as a large, costly, but insignificant appendage – both economically and socially.  Its inhabitants were a mixed bunch – from the scions of the families that began settling the valley in the 1830's through to a late wave of "tree-changers" who arrived in the 1970's and 80's.

At first, newcomers and old timers regarded each other's lifestyles with suspicion and contempt, but the social lubrication provided by bush dances, the local tavern, the wine-bar in the next village, and the happy interactions of the children of both groups at the local schools, eased the merger.  It wasn't long before the newcomers closed ranks with the old timers against "the outside".

One mother from an older family said one day that she was happy that we had moved to The Valley, as it offered her children a range of potential spouses who were not first or second cousins. 

Subsequent weddings showed that she was right.

50 kilometres away from the shire capital, we were also thoroughly ignored by the "local" newspaper.  Exasperated locals, with spare time, and creative impulse overflowing, formed a small committee, and, soon after, The OON was born.  A child of the 80's, it was hand drawn, mechanically typed, and physically "cut and pasted" to make masters, before being turned out on a photocopier that lived, for a long time, at the local Wine Bar (General Store, Service Station, Stock Feed Supplier, and purveyor of news, views, and rumours)

"Se Non e Vero, e Molto Ben Trovato" was the banner motto of Our Own News, and most of the stories within were both true and very good, even during the years when I took my turn as editor.  One of the great joys of this little newspaper was the range of talents it drew from the community.  There were several artists and cartoonists featured regularly, and a range of contributors producing regular and one-off articles, stories, and poems.  At one time, we could even claim to have international circulation, with a copy being mailed each fortnight to a subscriber in Hong Kong – he was an airlines pilot who lived over there but owned a "hobby farm" in The Valley.

The first editor and driving force behind its establishment, "June from the OON" provided all sorts of interesting stuff from her own pen, and was responsible for harassing and cajoling many unexpected authors into becoming regular contributors of quality work.  June, along with her friends, had also formed a local writing group called "The Pencil Orchids" and they sent work in, as well as publishing books of their own poetry.

That little, hand-made paper became an integral part of a community that had almost faded to nothing, and stood a real risk of becoming, at different times, either the floor of a water supply lake for the Upper Hunter Valley, or the severely battered target area of an extended Army firing range. 

That community grew and fought off its would-be destroyers, its schools began to refill with students, and it developed a thriving artistic and literary core that would draw acclaim from far and wide.  

The OON was there for all that.  The Valley community still thrives, its creative people still flourish, and The OON, after changing to online only during the first decade of the new century, has reverted to a print edition, and is going as well as ever.  If you are interested in reading it, the emailed version is free via oon_news@hotmail.com.

Three decades of continuous publishing is not a bad run for something that began with a few would-be, totally inexperienced journalists, sitting around a kitchen table – it was fun to write for, and fun to read and it was always worth the effort so many people put into it.  None of us could, or would, have done it on our own, and though the internet provides so many opportunities to individuals who wish to publish their work, there is still something to be said for getting together with other folk of similar bent, to tell your stories, and see what might happen.