For my Creative Writing course at uni, we naturally have to write creatively. This week, we have been discussing POV and perspectives, so I thought I’d share my piece of writing, which is from the point of view of my younger brother and a camping holiday taken in Scotland in the 1970s.
Climbing Ben Nevis
My sister is always reading. Anything to hand, she’s not fussy. At the moment she’s engrossed in a teenage love drama, about a girl who has a crush on a boy. So boring. My dad calls her a book worm. ‘Always nose deep in something or other,’ he tells us, turning the pages of a large newspaper.
I look out the window of our VW van. The Scottish countryside sweeps past; all greens and browns, sharp spikes of firs piercing the grey sky. My dad turns the wheel a sharp left and we trundle down a pot holed lane. A wire fence is the only barrier against a group of cows in the nearby field, watching us intently as my dad avoids another puddle. We lurch over a cattle grid, and a sign above us says ‘Ben Nevis Camp Ground. All Welcome!’ in faded yellow lettering.
My sister nudges me, shaking her head in disgust. What does she know? So far she’s barely raised her eyes from the latest Jackie magazine. I think her taste is rubbish. Dad drives on regardless, parking the van in a small enclave on the edge of the forest. The mountain looms above us, shrouded by a low lying mist on its peak. People are trailing down its side, clutching bright orange hoods that keep blowing in the wind.
‘Come on, no time to change. We can be up there before lunchtime,’ my dad encourages. ‘This mist will clear, you’ll see.’
My mum frowns. Skippy our Jack Russell licks my hand encouragingly. My sister groans.
‘I’m up to a good bit in the story! Do I have to come, really?’ she whines.
But my dad has already opened the sliding door. Skippy jumps out and scampers to the nearest thistle bush.
‘We’ll see you up there then. Come on son,’ My dad strides ahead. I zip up my jacket and pull on my hood. My ears tingle in the cold.
I follow his figure, watching as he easily climbs over a stile. There’s a youthful bounce to his step.
‘Wait up boys!’ My mum calls. ‘The weather forecast is grim. I’ve made us some tea; can the climb wait until morning?’
I look at dad. He looks back at me.
‘I suppose so,’ he mutters.
Maybe girls are wise after all.
#flashfiction #Scotland #creativewriting #POV