As promised, here is my piece on the theme of wanderlust. Hopefully it shows how diverse this theme is. You really do have the freedom to take it in any direction. I hope you enjoy and that you are thinking about submitting a piece of your own to Alliterati!
I sat in the first fluttering’s of the rising sun, feeling completely calm and outside of it all. The door kept out the low rumbling of the radio that lulled you to sleep every night but was as intrusive as a loudly ticking clock to me. I could hear people heading down the slippery cobbles from the outer town, surprisingly buoyant on their way to a hard days work in the heat. My robe was already sticking to my skin and the ice cubes in my glass were bleeding slowly into the orange juice. The rattle of shutters announced the waking up of businesses. The preparation for the tourists who would soon flood in had begun.
Across the last few rows of terracotta rooves at the south of the town, I could see the crystalline sea, shattering in the distance against the few tiny, barely inhabited islands. A colony of Australian backpackers who liked to ignore the local signs and jump right in, feet first, from the jagged cliffs.
The grumble of ancient motorboats declared the return of fishermen almost as old as their boats. The whole town was rolling out around me, a vision of pure white, vibrant orange and then perfect blue meeting with the cloudless cerulean above.
And yet my contentment was shallow and fragile existing only where I sat behind the thinnest membrane of distraction. The view, the sounds and the heat had temporarily rubbed out the tension in my muscles and the tightening in my head. Pacing on the outside was promise that I did not deserve the goodness I had scraped together until my fingernails bled. The promise that the outside would soon break in.
Vans approached the pedestrianised walls and carried in their guttural groans the arrival of newspapers printed in Croatian, French, Spanish and English. Doors folded back and boxes were passed down then carried through arches into the walls. I held my breath. News swept those ancient walls and along the well-paced cobbles, worked smooth by time and footfall. A flood in that town. Something had happened. Even as I watched the sun become a whole circle I was listing every possible world disaster.
The quiet on the balcony was disturbed by the backward scrape of my metal chair. Believing it had created a dusty scar I leapt forwards guiltily, shoulders wincing. My knuckles were white on the tiles that lined my pocket of safety and I slowly leant forwards, edging weight over onto the pads of each individual toe, I felt the wall scuff the bare skin on my thighs as I reached forwards into the warm, dry air.