Deluded Custodian’s are over the hill and far away.

My Hill

Was once Our Hill.

But sadly, he forgot to stop.

In the days when it was our hill, we frolicked amongst the blackwood and wattle. The hakea and heath.

The native hens cackled in the distance as snakes slithered through the undergrowth on blistering summer’s days.

Wild animals scurried beneath the brambles.

A black tail vanished into the bracken.

A devil or a feral cat? Too far away to tell.

Grasshoppers the size of a cigars mated in the undergrowth.

The abandoned VW Beetle, rusted and smashed, had left its bonnet on the ground for us to play with.

I sat on it, upturned, at the top of the hill. One gentle push and I was away.

Then it was your turn.

“Take the right path, not the left. Yes, it’s steeper but you’ll find it easy to stop at the bottom.”

He took the left.

I watched as he went sailing over the rock at the bottom, that sharp dolorite shard opening up a nasty cut in his forehead.

Then the ambulance helicopter came.

The paramedic asked if you were a contortionist. I said no.

“Oh well”

And from that day forward, you would frolic no more, proclaiming the hills in Tomb Raider 3 more suited to your tastes.

Our Hill was now My Hill.

The November Challenge.