This is supposed to be a descriptive writing piece but I stink at description. Not that I don’t like it, it’s just not as descriptive as many of my amazing classmates’ assignments were. Anyway, this is how Malta feels on a lonely, hot summer evening.
Nonsensical movements from the shadows on the ceiling distracted me from my reading. A sole light source in the dim room, a 60watt bulb hanging on to the dangling two-foot wire, had found some company on this humid, Mediterranean, summer evening. The flies appeared to be dancing for the glow of light but the deceptively pleasant flutter would only end with death during the night.
The heat remained unbearably still and the only energy I could muster was used to stare at the bleached, plaster-torn walls. With my head resting against the arm of a battered, spring-ridden sofa, I closed my eyes and listened to the soft sound of music playing across the bay. I laid very still and held my breath to then faintly recognize that “Red, Red Wine” by UB40 was the cruise ship’s song of choice at that moment.
All of a sudden, the music was drowned out by a loud rumble from the street below. A waft of burning diesel snaked its way through the screen doors, into the 2nd storey flat and tingled my nose hairs. That was the signal of a bus carrying eager party-goers to Paceville; Malta’s centre for drinking, discos and short-lived romances. I looked up at the ceiling again and saw a gecko who gave the impression of being entranced by the dancing flies and all I could think about was how I wished I was on that bus.