Contributor: Bruce Costello
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Alice the writer, in green jeans, with wet and wild eyes, lurching,
bottle in hand, onto the footpath, into the night,
muttering, muttering...
"It seems I was not your destination.
I was words that heard...
I met a man who walked on paths untrodden before.
How did he get there? How did he find the way? How can it be... that he does not love me...anymore?
I was hands that healed...
Listen, can’t you hear me, silently, in every part of you that I have touched?
I was lips that loved...
Can’t you taste my open mouth, moist eyes, my love that soothed your long held fears?
I was a heart that cared...
How dear you were, a delight of joy, light and laughter, a feeling that overwhelmed me and was me, the I that was me with you, a warm bath on a cold day, a cool drink when the tongue is hot and dry.
I was eyes that saw...
See how they cry,
♫ See how they run, see how they run, they all runned after the farmer’s wife, she cut off their tailsssssss with a carving knife, did you ever see thuch a thing in your liiiifffe.......♫"
Alice empties the bottle, stumbles on, trips, and picks herself up with a howl of hurt and rage. A dog leaps from a gateway, snarling, ready to lunge. Alice whips out a knife, slashes the animal’s face, laughs hysterically and staggers on.
The bitch’s car is in his driveway.
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New Zealander Bruce Costello semi-retired in 2010 and took up writing to avoid housework. Since then he's had over 30 short stories published, is seriously afflicted with Submission Addiction Syndrome and still does housework.
- -
Alice the writer, in green jeans, with wet and wild eyes, lurching,
bottle in hand, onto the footpath, into the night,
muttering, muttering...
"It seems I was not your destination.
I was words that heard...
I met a man who walked on paths untrodden before.
How did he get there? How did he find the way? How can it be... that he does not love me...anymore?
I was hands that healed...
Listen, can’t you hear me, silently, in every part of you that I have touched?
I was lips that loved...
Can’t you taste my open mouth, moist eyes, my love that soothed your long held fears?
I was a heart that cared...
How dear you were, a delight of joy, light and laughter, a feeling that overwhelmed me and was me, the I that was me with you, a warm bath on a cold day, a cool drink when the tongue is hot and dry.
I was eyes that saw...
See how they cry,
♫ See how they run, see how they run, they all runned after the farmer’s wife, she cut off their tailsssssss with a carving knife, did you ever see thuch a thing in your liiiifffe.......♫"
Alice empties the bottle, stumbles on, trips, and picks herself up with a howl of hurt and rage. A dog leaps from a gateway, snarling, ready to lunge. Alice whips out a knife, slashes the animal’s face, laughs hysterically and staggers on.
The bitch’s car is in his driveway.
- - -
New Zealander Bruce Costello semi-retired in 2010 and took up writing to avoid housework. Since then he's had over 30 short stories published, is seriously afflicted with Submission Addiction Syndrome and still does housework.
Author:
Bruce Costello
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