The Long and Winding Road

I wish I could believe all the tales we read as children. I remember marvelling at the possibilities of the world, all the magical things that might happen and all the creatures I may meet. My favourite was the one about the hobbit and his adventures through the mountains. I would look out across the Brandywine at the rolling hills where he was fabled to live and then turn around to see the mountains obscured only by the sheer distance they lay away. Today you cannot see the mountains but no-one cares. Barely anyone cared to begin with. The only thing anyone cares about is the size of their income or the fluctuation of the stock prices in the Gondor exchange. Hobbits and elves do not exist except in the memories of us romantics this side of the mountain.

These are the thoughts I indulge in each morning as I pull out of my drive on the summit of the Barrow Downs. Bree, the last “village” of Middle Earth, disappears behind the tall trees of the old forest as I make my descent down the hill. My skin is not used to the rough leather of my new Mithril D-series. It is my first Dwarven car and I can tell they still have a way to go in making them man-sized. I’m heading South-East today to meet with the CEO of Orodruin Enterprizes.

I hate travelling through the slums of Northern Mordor but he is an important contact and I must be punctual. It would be suicide to upset him. Already I dread spending time in a room full of orcs. They stink as much as they are greedy and their deals are as dirty as the oil they sell.

“Sauron Snacks, Flavoured oat rings; One cereal to rule them all!” blurts a billboard alongside the K14. If man were in power such blasphemy would not be tolerated. The sign depicts the dictator with red eyes glaring upon the traffic, his helmet deformed into the shape of a vulgar grin. Either they have forgotten the suffering caused by this demon or it is the orcs revenge for their humiliation in the second great war of the forth age. People know so little of our history that to them Sauron is merely the mascot of their favourite cereal.

I make my way across the Greyflood river which ironically, is green. I have to hold my nose as I pass. It is filled with the refuse of Ettemoor’s power plant and the Rivendell factory district.

Into the desert of Enedwaith, the only place not crawling with cars and vagrants. I love the desert.

I’m drawn from my peace from the Dunlands as I enter the gap of Rohan and cross the old dry river. This is where you begin to see the degradation of our modern cities. What was once a lush estate of Helm’s Deep forms part of the Rohan Red District. It is a melting pot for the scum of ME. The girls of the night work through the day here and their business is always good. I have to drive quickly and avoid eye contact with the goblins and young orcs which run this town.

I exit the cesspit and in the distance I can see the many high rise buildings that defeat the horizon. I can only be grateful that it spares me the sight of the ghastly Shadow Mountains surrounding Mordor. Looking out over Minas Tirith I get a whiff of depression. This world is so dull. If only there was a more exciting, more fantastic world I could have been born into. One of magic, axes, and trolls, or real war instead of this merciless killing. Perhaps I should write a book….

-Mrs Mcloughlin's notes:
Indeed I think you should - You have what it takes with regard to creative ability + command of the language.
All you need is an editor - I'll volunteer! (It can be a retirement job!)