|Another quiet afternoon in the park (standard:drama, 0 words)|
|Author: Robin Wyers||Added: Jul 03 2001||Views/Reads: 2191/1406||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A slightly shady narrator waits on a bench, admiring a musical performance in a local park. His eyes are firmly focused upon the object of his desire. But does the nymphet of his imagination become aware of her secret admirer's lust?|
Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story Any release from the cutting and chopping and dissecting of living beings - or her, any substitution of some creativity for the on-going destruction - or her. But can there really be no escape? Does the circle really have no gap? She looked at me again! Until now, love had always been oblivious from my nine to six life. If only I had met her, or her equivalent at that age (if such a goddess could have existed) if only the meaning of my life, my destiny had been presented to me then. Her strawberry blonde hair glistens in the late spring sunshine as her misty blue eyes draw downward circles, reading her music and lighting up the entire bandstand with her misty, mystifying glance. Her naked legs, so white, seemed to call me, partly obscured by her lyre but still as inviting and every time she turns a sheet of music I may catch a quick glance up her dark-blue skirt. And every time she throws back her shoulder length hair, signals seem to light up within every cell of my ageing body. Her breasts are small, but so is she and would grow but pray not too much. Yes, stop right ther! Of course she’s not the only girl on show and far from the only one of note. In fact it’s probably advisable that I don’t describe what I would actually love to engage in with the girl bearing a trumpet, two to her left, should this ‘fictional’ manuscript ever be found and used as evidence against me. But the other four girls just seem to be missing that extra sparkle that seperates the attractive from the dazzling, the nice from the mesmerising. Yes, for me there can be only one - one escape, one saviour, one haven. It´s mostly her glance. Her eyes seem to suggest a paved path to a better life, a better existence, a gateway to freedom. Her sweet music, now Bach, with its sometimes simple progression, seems to lead me there. Everyone else, pocketed around one of the city´s many public parks also seem attentive to her every move, as she dazzles into a dizzying flute solo, although presumably simply in admiration and respect rather then secret obsession. She smiles. Perhaps she loves being the centre of attention, perhaps she adores being immortalised in my descriptions of her. Can she never get enough attention? Or is she simply disguising her dominance under the illusion of a game? The lady who had been sitting beside me now arises as the five young girls stand up and take a bow to more applause. Stunning. I let out a quiet sigh, in the knowledge that a new week is on the horizon, the same new problems, the same new hazards greet me and I must remain in a lock of silence for yet another seventy days, counting down the hours till my next afternoon lost in a utopia of musical bliss. “Well done Helen”, the lady says tenderly, as she leads what is now apparently her daughter back to her car “I admit to finding two or three faults and a little work must be done in order to rectify those mistakes, if you’d just put in a little more effort I think you could manage. Anyway don’t worry about your performance too much - just look on the bright side - there’s always next Sunday”. As the scattered spectators leave - back to their suburban houses, their families, their secure jobs and return to their life - I remain seated, still in awe, following my obsession´s every move into her mothers mercedes. I think about following her, I think about it again. I think about getting into my battered down Ford Fiesta and following them on my quest for serenity, but I can’t. No, for me the anticipation of Godot´s arrival will have to stay in postponement for yet another week - still there´s always next Sunday! Tweet
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