I'd just like to say that I've never really done much creative writing. Or writing really.
I've been forced to split this into two posts. It's probably far too long for this. Sorry.
It was a dark and stormy night. Of all places you’d think you’d end up on such a night would be up a tree, shaking with fear for your own life. That’s what Derek Jones was doing on this not-so-glorious Sunday. He’d been so excited for this bank holiday weekend. He’d spent the previous week and half either day dreaming about it, planning it, or just grinning like an idiot imagining the adventure he was going to have. In reality, he’d simply planned to go camping at a site in Dorset, alone. Just him, his gear, and the bag of weed he’d scored on Thursday. It sounded like bliss. A true retreat. A chance to recharge and just forget about his mundane job. No looking at monitors and screens, no two fucking radios blaring at the same time, in the same office, a desk between them. No screeching laughter or uncontrollable giggles, no phones ringing, no spontaneous singing that wasn’t always to one of the two possible songs playing. No, none of that he’d thought. Just Derek, nature and his other green. Things had gone to plan right until Sunday evening.
He’d arrived at 3pm-ish, paid to enter the site and followed the road towards the car park. He reversed in between one of those traditional VW vans and some shiny BMW looking car. He pulled the handbrake, turned off the ignition and put the car into reverse. He got out and opened the boot, grabbed his pack and slung it over his left arm, bending his right to get it through the strap. He clipped the middle bit around his stomach and locked the car. He walked for twenty minutes and setup his tent. The weather was gorgeous. Derek got out his cooking gear, his Stag chilli in a can, and some Cheetos. He set the stove going and retreated for his tent. He’d taken his weed, his grinder, his papers and roach. Within minutes he came back with a king-size doob. Happy with himself and the evening he was having Derek plonked himself on his little fishing stool, popped the ring pull of the can and placed it on his stove. He pulled his lighter from his pocket and slowly lit the joint, rotating it as to get an even burn. Derek was in heaven. Good weed, good food, feeling like he was miles from civilisation and society, listening to the soothing sounds of birds singing. Or bickering. Whatever birds do. After enjoying his meal and laying on the ground watching the clouds pass, waiting and finally watching the stars, Derek turned in just after midnight.