General

When the tent was finally put up it looked somewhat dishevelled. The ropes that should have been tight had plenty of give in them and the bottom should have been pulled out more when they pegged it. Charlie wasn't pleased. He compared it to the other's on the site and found his wanting. He planned to be troop leader someday this wrinkled, flappy, sad looking tent was not advertising him as a potential candidate. It invited pity, perhaps scorn. He stood, fists clenching and unclenching then he flew around it pulling out all the pegs. With the grey clouds gathering overhead and the light fading it was perhaps an unwise move and his partner looked close to tears. Now it was no more than a pile of fraying green canvas made spiny by the jumble of sticks within it. It was like some boney animal that had died in the forest long ago leaving nothing but the skin and bones.

General

Rain beating against the canvas roof and sides, drips of water running down the sides, water dripping inside, the diffuse light of a stormy afternoon shining through the droplets, throwing it's brindled radiance onto the saturated cloth, the sides ripple in the gusting wind, straining against the rope and pegs, edges flap wildly, feels flimsy and inconsequential against the encroaching squall.

By angela, March 10, 2012.