1st draft extract #1
by Luke Otley
I unloaded our little camping stove, which was dented and covered in spatterings of dried tomato sauce and dust, and banged it upside down and placed it right by the front right tyre after standing straight and still for a moment to try and determine exactly where the wind was coming from looking (I hoped) like a very serious meteorologist. I put water to boil in my one good-for-all-jobs pot, which was heavy and good quality and which I had bought for eighteen bucks when I first got to Australia and had that kind of money to throw around.
“Hey man!” I said suddenly looking up from my pot and pointing out to sea, “did anyone just see that? Was that lightning?”. And out to the west was the most strange yet familiar bank of cloud like the type you get over the African savanna, long and low, with the sun deep orange and leaving us, lighting the bottom of the bank in a warm glow. I watched again, and a couple of the others put down the things they were busying themselves with and looked out, and we all stood there silent in the wind that whistled in towards us angrily, and waited for something to happen. Sure enough, and silent as the brooding water below, a gush of lightning dashed downwards, hot and yellow and completely unlike the white-blue lightning I know from back home, and then another strike, and another.
“Putain!” Quebec shouted and immediately took off up the road, pumping his big frame like a piston in an engine, and Luc followed after him, slower and shoeless and cradling a bowl of pasta and sour cream…