Grey granite stone, the great doddery wall towering over little since Roman times, knocked together long, long ago by the one-time burghers of South Rie…South Rie, the pre-spruced up tribal name of a latter day nouveau riche county. Over time ‘granite’ had seen Roundheads and Cavaliers playing the game called ‘revolution’, Luftwaffe bombers above, ‘up against the wall’ lovers aside its once robust construct, dogs pissing up its foundations and many a new mother passing by with babe in pram.

Before it a vista, a thoroughfare of sweaty tarmac dressed in skimpy white lines, cursed with acned cavities. As far as ‘granite’ went, the sweaty tarmac, nought but an unwelcome newcomer. Opposite, a modish nothing, a mundane parking lot where the big wheels rolled up in flash Beemers galore. It was there, at its indifferent exit, slumped in the driver’s seat, forehead repeatedly butting the steering wheel, alone and sozzled, inhaling…perhaps, perhaps not…his last ever Marlboro the suited and booted man, the victim of an estranged spouse who, one side of a two sided story, freely spoke of hating the fucking ground he stood upon, put up the shutters one last time. His eyes, he determined, no longer fit for purpose.

In lazy summer’s reluctant twilight escape, delighted cocky street lamps took to suburbia’s ever grateful stage. Nothing else mattered. ‘Should he or shouldn’t he? A few classy revs, foot down hard and it’s all over? It won’t be the first time ‘granite’s’ barricade had witnessed a last goodbye’.

Out of the moonlit blue a tap on the driver’s window. A quizzical…or was it curious?…tilted head, beaming smile. The girl with eyes that spoke, wearing a beachcomber men’s straw hat and bra-less in something fashioned from cheesecloth, sensed hara-kiri lurking in the shadows.

No baloney allowed, keys in her possession, she drove the pair over to the traveling funfair in the thatched-roof ancient village a short drive away. Atop the fair’s big wheel of many swinging gondolas it gave up the ghost, stopped dead in its circular tracks. Marooned at its unearthly pinnacle he who might have topped himself and she who would not countenance such lunacy snogged the time away, their pending rescue now a terra firma irrelevance, for they had found love…a love that put ‘two-fingers up’ at time, a love that knew no edicts.

I remember it well.

‘Your Mother & I’, a vinyl gift with his name written on it from the girl in the straw hat. The song ripped him apart, only then could she put him back together again. 

Herewith the inevitable ‘Blurb’ for my latest book, a fictional story entitled ‘The Blue-Eyed Cat’;
‘A book of mind boggling time-travel, feverish sex, syrupy romance, ho hum history, a dark future, The Moon, Constantinople, Paris and Berlin, human consciousness, infinity, a tongue in cheek take on all things carnal, art for art’s sake and three thoroughly mad yet oh so delightful gals’
Should it take your fancy it can be found at;
I am not entirely sure of other Amazon global links and thus I apologize for not revealing them here.

20 thoughts on “OUT OF THE MOONLIT BLUE

  1. Gracious! I just finished, this very moment, a piece that ends on those same four words! Granted, it does not match what I read here to-night, so I don’t think any-body will ever confuse the two, but keep your distance anyway, Steed! Well done, old boy.

    1. Gosh and golly old chap. A coincidence like no other. Not unique though. I well recall Winston Churchill in June 1940 saying, “We’ll fight them on the beaches” in his speech to The House of Commons re-WW2 and at that very same time my seagull hating Great Auntie Maud who lived by the seaside said the self-same thing to wily gulls who would shit upon her washing drying in the breeze. Such is the way of things.

    1. My thanks for your support, Liz. Most inspiring. ‘Twas about time I re-joined reality and got this one off my chest once and for all. Regards, The Old Fool

  2. This is different. I really like it! Not sure if I fully get it, or if I am supposed to.
    Anyway, it ends in love, so I’m good!

    1. An excursion from fiction to factual. Years slip by, now is the time. A belated diary perhaps my descendants will one talk of…or not, as the case may be. A collection of key moments in my life, good or bad. This episode, ‘Out of the Moonlit Blue’ had a happy ending on the night dear Shirl and I bonded…the same night that may well have seen an unhappy ending. My thanks that you read the piece. As ever, regards TOF

      1. Wonderful!
        I like the happy ending. May the age of Coronavirus have a happy ending, too!
        Hello to Shirl!

    1. I think its helped me following Shirl’s lead. To her everything, even inanimate objects, have a soul/character/personality. She gives them all names. Once you’ve got that, you simply play the role of, say, the old, wise ‘wall’ and think like the wall does. Insofar as the tarmac goes…unwanted newcomer, as seen by the old wall…it has juvenile ‘acned cavities’ instead of the real world potholes in the road this nation has millions of. Even George does this. For example the bin in the kitchen he’s named Herodotus because it…to him…looks a little Greek. I hope this helps, young Leslie. Regards, The Old Fool

  3. And how many souls does the ferris wheel bring together in a season? A year? A decade? I imagine that in every gondola there are other couples pairing and parting, singular souls yearning and despairing…much love learned and lost here, Master Steeden. xxxxx

    1. How very kind, Kendi. This piece is…for all intents and purpose…from my own diary. In short, a true story. Such things are rare, mostly it’s fiction I write. Regards, The Old Fool

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