Descending Underground
We hung out after school in the gully by the stormwater drain, better known to us as the tunnels . Traffic echoed above our heads as we explored the sewer graffiti below, daring each other to go further into the darkness without a flashlight. Nervous laughter, hearts pounding, and the potent smell of nearby plants saturated our first kiss. We were just particles of the town we grew up in. Sheltering with friends in the shade offered a brief escape from the sunken moods of others and the melancholy rhythm of our minds. With the sunshine in our eyes and cold cement surrounding us, we floated away. Down the road, next to the deli that sold gobstoppers and chewing gum with stick-on tattoos, was a telephone box. We would use the payphone to prank school bullies and call our parents to check if we needed to come home. Hidden from time, we grew tired. The moments of content left us behind in the red dirt, lying down and holding hands. It’s all gone now. The grassland is still there, but ...