By H Mosforth
With his eyes closed, he blocks out the keyboard tapping and the fax machine humming. His paper-piled desk becomes just a bad dream. He pictures the Welsh hills with their marshy pastures, all rolling down to the brim of the sea.
That was where he’d spent his last good summer. School was finished and he had an office job waiting. He had found brief freedom with a handful of friends, camping on the beach and sunbathing whenever possible. They’d claimed the coast as their own.
He hasn’t been home since that summer.
He only gets close when he closes his eyes.
Nice. We all have one of those places and although mine is very different from the Welsh coast, your writing takes me to my ‘last good summer.’ Thank you.