Post by Silas Isaac Naberius on Apr 21, 2019 10:24:11 GMT -6
Birdsong fills the mountainside, before us the hills and valleys rise and fall in a crashing green and brown wave which fades into the misty horizon. The overgrowth of moss and peat dominates the moor, a rare glimpse of nature’s untouched beauty; unkempt, unbroken. Between whistles and mating calls of birds are the regular grass-muffled cries of sheep, each reminding the others it’s still safe to graze. A ray of sunlight pierces through the cloud cover highlighting the brilliant shades of light greens and oranges previously hidden while dew resting on the heath glimmers in the morning light.
The sound of glasses clinking and rattling breaks the serene scene. The camera pans across to a small boulder resting against the mountain face. Songs and calls seem to die out in that moment, waiting on bated breath for the next sign, a clue as to whether the sound would be friend or foe?
‘Christ’s sake!’ The voice bellows from behind the boulder, sending birds and sheep flying and scampering alike. More sounds of clattering follow to the beat of heavy, irregular footsteps, and after a pause the boulder rolls downhill to reveal a small entrance to a cave. A couple of empty bottles of beer fly out of the hole and another few roll out and roll off after boulder. There are another few moments of pause until a man steps clumsily out of the cave entrance holding a hand to his forehead. He immediately holds his free hand up to the blinding sunlight.
‘Pissin’ hell,’ he mumbles and eventually manages to stumble away down a thin, trodden path, every other step a near fall on the uneven, muddy surface. Only a few steps later he walks onto a gravel-covered car park and clambers – almost falling – into the passenger side of a black 1970 Mercury Cyclone GT. In the driver’s seat is a woman some years younger than him, with raven hair and black leather, twirling a cigarette between her fingers. She turns and looks at him with a smile in the corner of her mouth.
‘That’s the last bloody time I let you lot pick the drinks.’
The sound of glasses clinking and rattling breaks the serene scene. The camera pans across to a small boulder resting against the mountain face. Songs and calls seem to die out in that moment, waiting on bated breath for the next sign, a clue as to whether the sound would be friend or foe?
‘Christ’s sake!’ The voice bellows from behind the boulder, sending birds and sheep flying and scampering alike. More sounds of clattering follow to the beat of heavy, irregular footsteps, and after a pause the boulder rolls downhill to reveal a small entrance to a cave. A couple of empty bottles of beer fly out of the hole and another few roll out and roll off after boulder. There are another few moments of pause until a man steps clumsily out of the cave entrance holding a hand to his forehead. He immediately holds his free hand up to the blinding sunlight.
‘Pissin’ hell,’ he mumbles and eventually manages to stumble away down a thin, trodden path, every other step a near fall on the uneven, muddy surface. Only a few steps later he walks onto a gravel-covered car park and clambers – almost falling – into the passenger side of a black 1970 Mercury Cyclone GT. In the driver’s seat is a woman some years younger than him, with raven hair and black leather, twirling a cigarette between her fingers. She turns and looks at him with a smile in the corner of her mouth.
‘That’s the last bloody time I let you lot pick the drinks.’
