Creative Writing ____________________________Page

Year 11 Literature student Josh Conway, came runners-up in a National writing competition, run by Written Portraits, in September. He flew up to Sydney for the awards ceremony and we are very proud of his achievement.

“SOFA COMFORT”

There’s the chair that Dad sits on, and seemingly makes his throne every night. The other chair five meters to its extreme left is sparingly used, its hallmark bits of cotton being pulled from the seams at the bottom, thanks to the household cat clawing at it. That annoys everyone. Peeping through the gateway formed by the kitchen entrance, there sits a TV at the end of the lounge room, sitting upon a table. Mum always says I watch it too much. I always rebut that by saying I can’t ever watch enough TV, especially when it comes to sport. It is truly the single greatest divider between success and failure. Regardless, precious photos of numerous things, including family, dreams, and my face surround parts of the room, along with a book case with novels that haven’t seen the light of day since Mum’s University escapades, and as much as she’d hate me to say this, that stretches a fair way back, although last time Mum told everyone how old she was around the Christmas table, she was 38. Year before that I could’ve sworn she was 35. Funny that. As I continue to pan around the room, there’s my laptop charger untidily dangling out of the power plug. Dad hates that. My reasoning for having it there falls on Dad’s deaf ears. Not because he can’t hear, more that he chooses not to. He doesn’t really have time for technology. Every time I try to explain why Facebook is a necessity, why Snapchat is so popular and the point of having Instagram, I realise that I am talking to the same man who can’t use his own mobile phone, which is probably a decade old.

Oh look, there are the neighbours leaving again, as I look through the room’s landscape windows. They are odd people, recluses if you will. The trees sway in the light breeze, as if someone is at the base of its trunk, politely asking if it could climb up, shaking it in the process. The clouds above that are dark-ish, slightly threatening, but it’s one of those days where it just looks cold. Whereas others may go to bed in this situation, and tuck up to be warm, I go to my sofa, the last remaining object of the lounge room. It’s maroon in colour, not massive but its slick leather is a tempting option. I love this sofa. There are few things in the world which provide such clarity of mind, of comfort, of safety, of belonging, as my beloved sofa. Yes, the leather can get cold in winter months, but that’s why there’s always two rugs draped off its two arms every single day of the year like Superman and his cape, unless they are wrapped around my good self. I am now cocooned. I am safe. Dammit. That air of safety momentarily leaves me. I have to reach for the remote of the TV on the coffee table at the centre of this room. I take one arm out of my new cocoon and stretch for the remote. I’m agonisingly close, but not close enough. If Maxwell Smart were here, he’d make a quip about distance, but it’s almost too corny to say now. I try to reach further. I can feel the socket of my right shoulder getting to its wits end. I can’t go any further. More safety leaves my conscience, and I have to lift my right leg from under the rugs, as I was lying horizontally on the maroon leather, to get that extra distance to reach the remote. I get to it. I curse myself, as now half of my body is cold and it will take a few minutes to warm up again. But I quickly remind myself that there are children in Africa who can’t get to water, so I deflate my warming ego a little more. Ah. I exhale. Warmth again. The TV flicks on, a short spark ignites the plasma screen, and I get to Channel 7. It’s Sunday. It’s 3 o’clock. That means only one thing- footy. It doesn’t matter who’s playing, I’ll still watch. I love it. I still haven’t found anything that matches Victorian’s love for the game of AFL. There are not many places on Earth you can shake hands with someone you have never met in your life before, and most likely won’t again, other than at a game of footy, and talk about the game like lifelong friends, all because they support the same team you do. Brilliant. Back in my lounge room, Melbourne are playing Carlton. The game is about to start. I’m snugged up, the rugs just about touching the end of my chin, for optimal warmth. My feet find the end of the sofa, in the same way your legs find the back of a seat flying economy, only I am lying down. Nonetheless, I’m set for the day. Or am I? Dammit. I jumped the gun. I have nothing to snack on. I begrudgingly get up to the fridge, to find something to eat and drink. Sometimes it doesn’t have to be eatable. Occasionally I will chew on one of the cords stemming from the neck of my hoodie, but I’m not wearing that jumper today. Yoghurt and lemonade will do. I strategically place my remote to my left on the back of the sofa, resting on the wall. My phone rests on my stomach, ready to check any messages that filter through. I quickly check Facebook. Same old same old. Depressed teens saying how hard life is, and happy teens saying how happy they are with their partner of one month. Sometimes I wonder what generation I live in. I also wonder where to put my glass of lemonade. The floor has to do, the table to too far away to reach. I again remind myself of poverty stricken Africa, and put it on the table. It’s the least I can do. My yoghurt straddles my right hip, and the end of the couch, almost as snug as me and my rugs. Now truly, I am set as I hear the MCG siren billow out of my TV.

The game is not even 5 minutes old and I’m already tapping away on my iPhone, checking 5 different social platforms in a minute. Again, I wonder what our generation has come to, indeed what I have too.

The clock ticks by as I alternate my time checking Supercoach fantasy points of the game I am watching, and the game itself. The hapless Dees are doing what they do best. Losing. I polish off my yoghurt, place it on the ground and shut my tired eyes. I know I have got this to write, and subjects to study for, but you know what? There is nowhere I’d rather be on a cold Sunday afternoon, dosing off with the football in my ears, a pillow to lean on, with my beloved, comfy sofa to lie on. Absolute bliss. it on the ground and shut my tired eyes. I to write, and r, but you s nowhere old Sunday off l w y fa te