Monday, 23 September 2013

Crossing Swords



I thought I knew this area like the back of my hand. And by road I did. But the fields were another matter. I’ve been rediscovering the locale while circumnavigating the dog-walking circuits and strolling the lengths and breadths of the footpaths and bridleways of the area. No longer just the trans-village routes either, but now the inter-county rights of way too.
I’d been walking towards a fading sun that evening before pausing for thought on the footbridge between the maize and the Miscanthus fields. Someone else’s broken conversation was carried to me on the wind as I stood there trying not to listen:
“A cold, eh? What you need for that is eucalyptus . . .”
“Isn’t that what George Formby used to play?”
Their voices came and went until finally silence prevailed and they went their separate ways. It wasn’t long though before I heard a lone voice aimed directly at me, “Penny for your thoughts.”
“You’d want your money back,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Try me.”
“I was just gazing through the gaping holes of what might have been,” I told her, “and feeling like an interloper in my own life. In my mind I looked back at the blank canvass with which I’d started, tarnished now with an unsightly splodge rather than the resplendent work of art I would have preferred. All right, I admit I did deliberately go over the lines in the great colouring book of life, but even so . . .”
“Don’t talk such bollocks,” she said sensibly, “Mind you, you’re right about one thing, I would have wanted my money back. Come on you miserable old sod, let’s walk.”
It quickly struck me how overrated walking into the sunset was. You can’t see a thing!
Trudy and I continued to cross paths and frequently cross swords too.



Written and conceived by M J Race

Copyright © 2013 M J Race
 
All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.



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