The bench lives beside the river, its faded paint cracking. From the bench, you can barely hear the trickle of the sparkling stream through the roar of the aeroplanes passing overhead. Children laugh and play, they come and go, but the bench stays – sitting in an everlasting pose, an everlasting observer.

From the bench, you can see the eels winding through the current like giant black noodles. From the bench, you can feel the fickle breeze blowing against your face and smell the aroma of many past meals eaten beside the stream.

As the day grows old, a gnarled old tree stump casts its dark shadow across the bench providing cool relief from the scorching sunlight. When the sun begins to fade, you can almost taste the beautiful fresh air. Air shared with all the majestic flora and fauna lining the soggy banks. You can hear the infuriating mozzies buzzing a never-ending song, but you just aren’t quick enough to stop them sucking your blood. After a hard day’s exercise, the bench is always there to rest on.

- Felix H