A Time-Travelling Tale that ends well
Christmas Day, 2842CE. A universe aeons away goes ‘phut’: In no more than a picosecond, complete darkness. The only sound, that of a whispering zephyr. In its wake, a pseudo macrocosm’s ever-decreasing guttural burps fading away into a soundless zilch. Left behind, ruination’s nothingness. The crumpled scum perished. Once relishing in a perverse, now empty, endlessness, lovely Lily’s mission is over and done with.
A field south of Paris, 1938CE: As of the newborn moment, looking skyward, a sparkling flash of disco-dancing stars, glittering like pale turquoise precious gems on a black velvet backcloth, she rediscovered her sanity. Heavenly bodies magical frolics short-lived, a momentary spectacle foretelling serendipity had taken her back home. Pure-blooded time had slumbered far too long. Quick-witted incandescent celestial prima ballerinas now tripping the light fantastic, just for her. An extravaganza that put menacing iniquity to shame, for it had had its tedious chance and failed abysmally.
In the blink of an eye, all-changed, for now it was the turn of the sun, a sun that certainly had its hat on. Tickled pink blue-sky thinking, eclipsed desolation’s salacious blues. Under a tangerine orb she lay prostrate upon a wild flower meadow, its continuous cover of grasses, nature’s carpet as far as the eye could see, interrupted only with abstract, yet welcomed floral squatters, mostly sweet violets, cow parsley, honeysuckle, daisies and her all-time favourites, the enchanted nightshades. Put side by side, a purple, white and green flag of an avant-garde Eden.
As absurd as it seemed to be, she did not know what she should do with her pre-owned legs, legs that had walked a zillion miles across other-worldly eggshells. What had happened to her indelicate bracelets, cheap and nasty body jewellery and humiliating ribbon tethers previously forced upon her? Not that she gave a flying fuck about yesterday’s trinkets. Time would tell, it always does. Yet here, in the middle of somewhere, all was tranquil, her nakedness now a depiction of explicit purity.
An exceptionally bold, large-chequered skipper butterfly, landed upon her breast. Unusually for such a generally timid creature, he lingered longer than arguably necessary. As if cursed by a wicked witch, this fluttering prince charming from an olde fairy-tale stayed put as he awaited her sweetheart kiss, in dire hope that she was the princess he’d been searching for, for decades. “I’m sorry Your Royal Highness, I am not a princess,” the only thing she could think of to say at the time. Taking a short flit from breast to lips, he kissed her anyway, then off he flew, a yo-yo like flight, as he bounced along the tips of the virgin wild flowers. It was only then, after that butterfly’s embrace, so typical of gallant yet incorrigible Frenchmen, that she knew for certain that she was definitely home again, home in her beloved France, safe from harm.
Finally, Lily’s most favoured song of all. She tells me ’tis but a song to bathe by.
Hell’s bells it’s been a long time since I last posted. I’ve missed your company.
These days I’m under considerable pressure to become ‘The Old Fool’ I once was…rather than the ‘Miserable Old Sod’ they say I presently am. Annoyingly, for the last eleven months I’ve been cursed with what I term, ‘Little Englander Isolationist’ disease. ‘Tis a pure white bacteria attracted to free-thinkers within a cosmopolitan society. I didn’t stand a chance. It has had serious ramifications effecting both my mind and body to the extent it has made me rather ill. That said, it is the most puzzling experience when signals from a guilt-free brain are brushed aside by an apathetic body.
That said, on a happier note, should my recent work take your fancy, herewith the links. I believe the Kindle thingy is free; the paperback inexpensive;
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