The Perhaps

This is my entry for the "An Unexpected Adventure" Competition- although, my entry should be called "The Unexpected Adventurer". I'm not entirely sure what to write as a resume- maybe you guys can leave some suggestions in the box below? Thanks, I'd appreciate some feedback :D


2. Chapter 2

For the last time in his life, Quentin McLaine closed his front door. Walking across the lawn, he could smell starlight and and lavender. He closed his front gate and stood for a moment, watching his house. The night air around him was thick and warm and clung to Quentin's skin in a thin film. His house was bare and dull and lonesome. It was best to leave. People aren't supposed to look back. But Quentin McLaine did. 

Finally turning his back, he began to hobble down the road, one hand secured around his wooden cane, and the other in his coat pocket. Quentin looked up at the sky that rested just above his bespeckled head; the stars had come out. They were ready for him. But Quentin was not quite ready for them. His adventure  had just started. And he was prepared to see it through.

The houses that he progressed by contained sleeping inhabitants that, at that present time, would know nothing of the outside world. It would not have occurred to them that, by the time they had arisen the next morning, Quentin would have gone. The idea loitered with him awhile. Each lamp-post that he passed seemed to snatch a minuscule breath out from under him. Quentin knew that this was enervating work for a haggard old man such as himself, but the road ahead of him soon disintegrated into an abundance of shrubbery and dust, clearing a way for the path that lead him to the place that he so desperately needed to be.

The winding lane that he took now was worn and beaten and loved. It slid off of the corner of his street, just before the junction that lead into the town. That lane, like Quentin, had seen many things in its arduous and tiresome life; it had held children on bikes and young lovers in its outstretched arms; nursed poor, broken people and old married couples. Each crack held a piece of significance. Sometimes, thought Quentin, The most important things are over-looked because they are either small or old. It had certainly been true for him. The Pines billowed in the lucid zephyr, turbulently at first and then calmly. They reminded him of a time when he was sure he would not survive the night; a night when he was prepared to meet Death. Quentin had lay beneath the heavy bow of a pine-tree, shot. His squadron camp, in Northern Italy, had been uncovered, like an insect beneath a rock. Bleeding by the tree, Quentin prayed that he would not have to become a monster that night; that he would not have to kill another human in order to survive. As he did so, an enemy uniform with a whistle around it's neck approached the pine that he lay dying under. Inside the uniform was a boy, all trepidation and duty. He saw Quentin and Quentin saw him and they both held a locked gaze. The boy moved the alerting whistle to his lips but hesitated. Wide-eyed, he nodded deferentially at Quentin, and ran on. That boy did not want to become a monster that night either.

The lane was cut off by a babbling brook adjacent to the meadow. Breathless by this point, Quentin crossed the stone pathway and opened the gate to the field. He felt his cane sink into the soft mud that skirted the grass area, but continued onwards towards an Oak that was situated in the middle of the meadow. The grass was dusted with warm dew and moonlight, that brushed gently against Quentin's leg as he reached the centre. He lowered himself to sit beneath the bows of the great Oak, just as he had done in the forests of Northern Italy, all those years before.

All Quentin had to do now was what he did best.




Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...