Another quiet afternoon in the park (standard:drama, 0 words)
Author: Robin Wyers	Added: Jul 03 2001	Views/Reads: 3719/2577	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?

Another quiet afternoon in the park (word count - 1,516) I rarely missed
a performance. It was just one of the highlights of my week, in fact 
perhaps the only light. Technically, a week contains seven days - mine 
contained seventy, although in terms of actual achievement, perhaps 
seven hours. It was good to get away. Good to smell the fresh breeze, 
the scent of  newly mowed grass, the rhythm of melody replacing the 
ruthless monotony of engines. And her - yes it was good to get away. 

There she rests seated once more. With a flute in her mouth she blows
rhythmically, hard. With her in the vicinity I can only apologise as my 
prose is destined to dematerialise into third-class innuendo as her 
mystifying lip movements continue. As I write this, my hand is already 
trembling and had this piece not been typed out it would appear like 
nothing more then a mesh of illegible jargon. Perhaps it may have been 
a safer gamble, immediately ruling out any damning information for 
those seemingly inevitable future court appearances. “Can I control 
myself? Can you? Seeing her in front of you now, can you really control 
yourself? Without the constricting consequences, would you resist? In 
fact is anything apart from public opinion and fear of a prison 
sentence chaining you from outing your lust?”. “Excuse me sir, but you 
are obviously discussing your private depravity with the wrong man. May 
I observe that you are indeed a very dirty individual and should you 
lay your depravity on any of those lovely young girls, may I add 
probably twenty years your junior, I would hope that you would be 
immediately brought to justice. Good day to you sir”. (exit ridiculous 
twat) 

That’s good, the whole bench to myself now, scaring away the tourists
always seems to carry with it, the sense a minor victory, wouldn’t you 
agree? In fact, she looked over at me there! I sware she did! With that 
stunning look in her eyes, that glow, that youthful exuberance. Her 
name? After all these weeks I still don’t know. “Excuse me missus, 
what’s the name of your daughter...Why? Well I wanted to put a name to 
such a magical rendition of The Marriage at Figaro, plus I immediately 
need her to engage in some passionate hot monkey loving”. No, it’s not 
really advisable. But does it really matter what she’s called? Names 
often turn out to be horrifying dissapointments, what if her name was 
Hulga? Sam? Peg? Would it be possible for me to ever live down the 
shock? (of course, should I ever enter my recollections of this event 
into a short story competition, safely under the genre of fiction, no 
offence was intended should any of the adjudacators have been 
christened by any of the three particular names I have mentioned. In 
fact I was once fortunate enough to sleep with a female by the name of 
Hulga - is it my fault I find gorillas sexually attractive). 

I love the park. At the end of the day, it’s one of the few zones where
it is possible for all society to meet. For example, the odds of ever 
crossing paths with that comical man who was just sitting beside me, in 
my workplace are incredibly minimal. The type of man who speaks a 
little in this fashion, and can proceed to do so for numerous hours 
with little progress in the transmission of information, whether during 
the sun-drenched sunny afternoon, the dark hours of a very dark night, 
the morning rays of a new day, the sun-drenched sunny afternoon of the 
following sunny day - am I making myself totally comprehensible, or 
would it be rather more comprehensible if I were to explain myself in a 
more detailed manner. Yes, it would be rather unlikely to meet a person 
from that walk of society in a meat factory, the type of career where 
only the alliterational advantages seem to carry any value. Again, a 
woman like this lady now chooses to cautiously sit beside me, ‘her’ 
little puppy on a leash in total dependence upon her mercy and should 
her fur-coat clad body ever feel the need to exhale its wrath, only one 
possible outcome awaits. 

I’ve always wanted to finally quit my job, finally make a beginning,
finally enter a rhythm of progress freely leashed around by my 
obsession’s sweet music. Perhaps I could write a few more short stories 
similar to this, perhaps I could even write a novel, yet in order to 
finance such a bold step and make a serious attempt would require 
searching for another job, with little appearing on the horizon but the 
same. A career, even a part-time job which may carry with it some 
inspirational value, work in a library, a bookshop for example would 
seem like the Holy Grail for someone who left school at 14. For in 
total regret, I had little choice but to put every effort into 
supporting my mother after my father’s ‘dissappearance’.  Now I wait. 
What for? Anything ! Almost any other job whatsoever in fact - or her! 


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