Graveyard Hill

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Graveyard Hill
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Smashwords Edition – Copyright © 2015 Ian King.

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This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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My cousin Shane, and I set up our little tent at the back of the farm, where it was unlikely that anybody would disturb us. Water rolled leisurely past us along the creek bed which had been dug out of the clay nearby. It was within earshot of our chosen campsite and out of it flowed a peaceful sound, and it smelled cool and fresh. Dainty leaves from the overhanging willows, played their mysterious and haunting tunes above us and they hide much of the creek from the sun. This was our secret, hidden paradise for the next few days. Bird song, could be heard from all around us.

We were both ten years old, but I was the oldest because my birthday was in February and his was in July. We had pitched our tent on a flat spot between the brier bush, which raked its thorns over any careless by–passer (ouch!) and the pit above, where the tractor had dragged a few dead cows into it over the years, and one beautiful horse named Princess. Now they all rested in peace. Fortunately for us, nothing had found its final destination there in recent week... pewww! That would stink!

We had named it Graveyard hill. It was nice and flat there (mostly) and hidden away where many wild flowers speckled the hillside, purple and yellow and some even red. They were quite pretty amongst the sun–bleached bones, scattered higgledy–piggledy around. It made it a sort of special place for the local residents. The dead center of our farm. Well, that’s what we would call it in a jape, anyway.

Earlier on Shane ,and I had caught some eels from down at the dam not too far from here. We had made fishing rods fit for the job, out of simple tee–tree branches and nylon that we found in dads shed. We chucked on some fishing hooks we had found and some old nuts, for weights; it was all we needed. On the farm, we used what we could, that's called kiwi ingenuity.

We were going to cook them over our fire, on a spit. Some ‘number 8–wire’ and ‘Y’ sticks, from broken branches. We’d poked them into the ground to make it all ready, for holding up the eels above the roasting flames. The river sheer bulged with fresh–peppery watercress, right outside our door, so it was a full course meal: vegies and meat! Oh and we cheated on the desert, as we had brought some rice pudding in a can. Yumm!

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