The Forgotten Man
by David Jenkins, aged 16

Picture this: the sun ascends over a hill. The perfect rays of sunshine scatter over and then flood the valley. Place in this valley a Middle Ages, village chapel, in pristine condition. The light shines magically through the six hundred year old stain glass windows, illuminating the inner walls in a spectrum of colours. Around the chapel, which is the focus of the valley, put quaint, pretty, thatched roof cottages. Lets say, twenty. Splashed about like the brushstrokes of a confident artist. The light of the sun strikes the vivid colours of the stunning flowers in the perfect gardens of the village cottages. The shining white walls of the spotlessly clean homes contrast against the acutely straight, green, hedgerows and the equally accurately trimmed lawns. The sun light glistens and gleams on the waves in the village pond, as swans effortlessly and elegantly propel themselves through the crystal clear waters.

No cars pollute the air with their aroma and noise; only birds sing soft harmonies in the blossoming trees. No aeroplanes pierce the air, destroying the peace; only the innocent laughter of children playing, or the knowing laughter of adults break the tranquil bliss.

A lot of the happiness in the village seems to be generating from a single cottage, and in particular a single man. Yet he is not a lonely man; he jokes with his friends, giggles with the children. He is happy man; a man enjoying his life as best he can. He has no worries, no secrets trouble his mind. He has no nightmares; his life in the village is like one long dream.

But dreams do not last forever, and every man has to wake up; eventually.

But then comes news that the village is going to be demolished to make way for a motorway. Ten years later a different, but eerily familiar scene occurs.

Picture this; the sun wearily rises over the hill, but struggles to penetrate the clouds. The imperfect rays of sunlight create a blotchy, scrappy half light. Place straight down the middle of this valley a huge carpet of stinking tarmac, like the splodgy brushstroke of an artist on the rampage. The sunlight fails to shine on the cars ambling slowly down the road. Wild and overgrown, the grass at the sides of the motorway reaches out for the cars, pleading to be returned to its former beauties and glories. By the side of the road, a sludge-covered pond struggles to regain its dignity.

No birds sing; no children laugh. All that can be heard is the purring and belching and spluttering of car engines, riddled with the unforgiving blast of a car horn. All that can be smelt is the stench of exhaust fumes.

A lone car pulls over and a solitary man steps out. He looks around. He remembers this place. He knows he knows what was here, what should have been here and what could have been here. But he is the only one; is alone in his mourning for the loss of such a beautiful place. He turns and gets back in the car, alone on the edge of the huge line of cars, of people. A single tear trickles down his face.