Hey there folks, we have a little treat for you today, a brief excerpt from my last novel entitled “The Refugee” – a tale of a young writer tired of society escaping to an island to hide out among the subterraneans. Looking for meaning, his soul, his passion, and his reason to re-join the world. Enjoy.
The bus finally came and I got on with a few others and grabbed a seat with an empty one beside me so I could put my pack next to me for the voyage. I then rested my tired head against the window like I always seem to do on busses. My life is spent on busses like that, days like that, mornings where I’m starving and tired and beat; ah … but soon we got under way and the fresh excitement of the unfolding road in front of us, and the passing scenery outside filled me with that exuberance for travel that I lived for (that I’d die for if I had to). Outside we toured around the southern most part of Surrey; where the large great factories sat and bore useful working energies of the morning vigour ness of working days – the logs piled in the sea up on the shore and piled in massive stacks in back yards of big pulp mills made me mad at our world – and all I could do was stare through my window at it like it was some artificial world; not really what was going on – just some fantasy zoo world or something. We passed under the dark grey bridge that hid the sun and produced an artificial blackness – the base of the large concrete bridge was round and grey and was like a huge faceless building; a cold façade of bleak concrete – underneath this, at the base of the bridge stand was a small beat shack – who lived there? I secretly wondered about what his life was like? – and I smiled in the grey day as we passed this and zig zagged thru the dark streets of wooden houses and quaint road ways, with big green pine trees in back and front yards that stood up like great western pillars of brown wood and fern branches. Then we shot out of there and hit the long straight away of highway 99 – on both sides were wide open plains of rolling green hills and farmers fields and wiry silver poles clumped together like a spider web of metal and big black wires stretching across the sky, over head and somewhere in the distance, into people’s homes and buildings’ assholes everywhere. Soon we reached the long blue ocean road that led up to the ferries. Along this road in Twaiswassen, was a massive black barge with ocean tankers docked at it; orange cranes sat dismally at the sides of the tankers, motionless and dead – things always seemed to be at a stand still on those ships; to me at least – I never saw anything being done and I wondered if there ever was anything being done. And then the bus let us off at the entrance to the white building; the ferries were on the other side. I stepped out onto the pavement and smelled the great ocean breeze. I didn’t have any cash though and needed to go to the bank machine in the restaurant off to the side; where there was also a café. So I husked that pack back onto my shoulder and hiked it across the large relatively empty parking lot and walked in thru the doors.