Creative Writing: The Playground


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As I saunter onto the school field, I survey the premises to behold people in coats, shielding themselves from winter's blues. The sun isn't out yet, but the place bursting with life and exuberance, with people gliding across the ice covered floor almost cat-like. The field is effervescent and despite the dire conditions, the field seems to have taken on a life of its own. The weather is bad and the ice seems to burn the skin if touched, yet the mood is still euphoric. The bare shrubs and plants about the place look like they've been whipped by Winter himself. The air is frosty and at every breath the sight of steam seems to be present. A cold, cruel northerly wind blows across the playground and creates unrest amongst some. Crack! The crisp sound of leaves is heard, as if of ice splitting and hissing. Squirrels are seen trying to find a point of safety, scurrying about the bare trees that lie around the playground. Mystery and enigma clouds the playing field, providing a sense of anticipation about the place. Who is going to be the person to spoil the moment? To kill the conversation?

'Better to live happy and die poor, than to live rich and die wretched' seems to be the general notion about the place, as an air of optimism makes its way across the playground. It is a Friday morning and the weekend seems so close. It can almost be tasted and the thought of a long, interminable, uneding sleep is a solace that constructs this impeccable scene.

In the distance, the ringing of a phone can be heard as fog drifts over the playground. Through the mist and fog, a boy can be seen climbing onto a roof, collecting his ball. He climbs as sure-footed as a cat and ignores the warnings from his peers. Hurried scampering is seen, as students scurry into the building hoping for warmth and shelter. There are some, though, who brave the conditions and continue to go about their business like warriors.

The teachers bring out their cups of cocoa as they patrol the school field looking for any signs of mischief. The smell of freshness journeys the air, moving and gliding through each molecule.

Children from the older years administrate the playing area, whilst those from the younger try to negotiate some space. In the far corner of the playground, students seem to be talking, predicting the weekends' results.

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In the bulk of the playground footballs, basketballs and tennis balls are all out and the school field is infested with students running about as quick as the wind. Then there are those who walk about the place looking for some kind of action, not knowing where they are going and not knowing where they have just been. They are a sorry sight compared to those who run about and they move like ghostly figures, never in one place. For the playground to them is place of haven and where they can be free of the usual pressures that a day at the school brings. Lastly, there are those like myself, whom look upon this playing area and can do nothing but admire its beauty. For the playground is a place where we may let ourselves go and a place we can express ourselves in many different ways.


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