Brunswick St
Brunswick Street, Melbourne

This is a short story I wrote over the weekend as part of my Creative Writing Course. The theme this week is ‘Place’ particularly an experience/event/time or people that has made a lasting impression on us.

I chose to write about my trip to Melbourne with my son, who’s now totally immersed in the Melbournian lifestyle. Melbourne is an eclectic, Bohemian, unique corner of Australia, which totally goes against all the notions of wide open rural landscapes, kangaroos on every corner and blue sparkling beaches along its vast coastline.

Melbourne leaves a lasting imprint on your psyche, and is well worth a visit.

Brunswick Street

The tram rumbles on behind us as we hurry down the street, passing noisy school children like chattering monkeys, clad in matching hats and wooly socks. I feel a bumping against my elbow and a young woman brushed past, clad in a long flowing skirt scattered with animal prints. A whiff of cigarettes fills my nose, mixed with spicy herbs and perfume. She has a brightly printed scarf over a mass of dark curls, reaching almost to her bum. A flash of yellows, purples and deep blues from her headwear, almost reflecting the sky in front of me. A church bell chimes and I think again of the lateness of the hour and our reasons for hurrying. Quickening my pace, I glance into a shop window, drawn to the shiny objects in its glass frontage. Musical instruments of all shapes and sizes are displayed there, waiting to adorn a pub or nightclub or even the corner of a trendy living space, reminding me again of the sheer mood of such an eclectic street. Up ahead, a sign flashes intermittently, welcoming us into the alcove below. We stop in the doorway, catching our breath for a moment. Loud music pulsates from the deep interior, muffled by the street traffic and the stairs leading downwards.

‘Now is not the time for dawdling,’ a voice fills my eardrum, and I nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I glance at the mirrored wall, hesitating. Will my clothes be suitable? I’ve had my dress a while. What about my hairstyle? It’s the same style that I usually wear. What about my makeup? The same products that I’ve always used. How will I cope if he rejects us? Even worse, that we’ll embarrass him?

With a clipping of heels, we descend the steps, into the darkness. The music is louder now. My husband takes my hand, nudging me.

‘There he is,’ he shouts into the pulsating noise, as my son, guitar in hand, appears on the stage.

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