Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Did you know 90% of Australians live on the coast? Those other 10 % must be hardy folk!
Aran's head hurt, his mouth was dry, and he could feel the grains of sand in his eyes, but he had to press on. Wearily he heaved his weight onto his equally tired horse's back to continue his search. The day was still, even if it was bleak and cold, and a light dusting of snowflakes slowly drifted down from above.
Aran bone weary, was not paying attention, the clomp of his horse's hooves striking a hard surface causing him to look suddenly down. Finding he was on a broken edge of a bitumen road that headed into the distance before him. Drunken telegraph poles teetering at impossible angles still lined it, the wires broken and trailing uselessly on the earth.
He followed the blacktop, its double white lines faded to an insipid gray. The countryside had changed subtly, the shifting orange sands giving way to flat, rock-strewn clay. Scattered over this landscape, stunted leafless trees, and low clumps of equally dead grasses, interspersed with the occasional dilapidated fence line, consisting of rusted star droppers, and barbed wire.
There were older sections of fencing, here too, built completely of rock, the stones all tightly fitting together with a complete absence of mortar. A legacy to men of another time. Scattered ruins stood here as well, mostly just the chimneys remained, and the tight rectangle of the foundation stones. These had been simple stone cottages once, but they had been abandoned long years before any war.
In the distance, Aran sighted what appeared to be a traditional country town. Something from memory. As he rode closer he could distinguish a neat cluster of stone structures that still lined the paved roadway. The signs of war and chaos were not apparent here.
Before the little town, set off to one side on a gently sloping incline was a stone church, complete with a little graveyard set to its side. An ornate wrought iron fence bordering it. The double-arched doors made of wood, stood closed and intact, as were the windows and the iron roof. A well-traveled dirt trail led up to it. The original road sign sporting the town's all-but-forgotten name had been replaced with a hand-painted one on plywood. John'stown it advised, in bold black letters.
Further in he could sight a building that would have once been a hotel, its large windows boarded up on the ground floor, and another that would have housed a general store. The rest of the town consisted of the usual standard four-room cottages with iron lean-tos on the rear and a front veranda. They too all crafted of the same bluestone.
Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys, and as Aran got closer a black and tan dog barked its warning. Many vehicles were still parked in the streets where they had at last ground to a halt many years ago, their tires flat and shredding from their long disused, and rusted rims.
Wary, Aran advanced, determined he would not be surprised again, his horse's hooves resounding loudly on the pavement. The dog continued its strident warning, trailing behind him annoyingly, growling at intervals. Making his tired horse jittery on the slippery blacktop as it attempted to kick the harrying canine.
