NC-2 Where Love Goes (standard:romance, 1355 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Jun 11 2005	Views/Reads: 3383/2207	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A writer writes, teasing himself that words can cross the greatest of divides...perhaps they can.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

He raised his cup in the air in a kind of salute before drinking the 
last of it. Reckless, oblivious of everything said that didn't have the 
word ‘walk' in it, started barking. 

‘Reckless, that's enough!' Susan commanded, kindly. The dog,
understanding the tone, assumed the lying position, eyes huge, his tail 
reduced to a quivering of excitement. 

‘Something smells remarkably good,' he said, walking toward her and
planting a kiss on her cheekbone.' 

‘I thought we'd barbeque; it looks like it'll be a perfect evening. You
have plenty of time to take Reckless for a walk.' The dog, hearing that 
word, immediately bounced to his feet and started barking. 

‘Okay..okay, just a minute lad.' The dog wrapped himself around his
master's leg, his tail wagging wildly. ‘You never really answered my 
question,' he said, pulling the leather leash off the hook on the back 
of the door. 

‘Which one was that?' She quizzed. 

‘Whether you believe words can get through, you know, after death?' 

She sidled up to him and, with pastry white finger, touched his nose.
‘When you write it, darling, I believe it!' 

‘Very scientific,' he said, ‘Com'on Reck', we'll get no sense here. Back
in an hour, honey.' The dog bounded out the door. 

Away from the seasoning smells of food, Reckless ran along the cliff
path seeking out his own favourite odours, sniffing everything as if it 
were fresh bread, and lifting his hind leg to sign his passing. 

Far below the ocean rumbles ashore, loins rising and falling, while
further out to sea indentations bulk and heave under a solid blue-slate 
sky. It looked beautiful, wild, so huge, and so contaminated by man. 
Deep within his heart, he knew it was an ocean of elegant woes. The 
great whales so often mystified in their direction, travelling with 
defects upon their skin, breath stinking of oil, and ulcers on every 
anus, and none of it a result of nature. It was no picture perfect 
world he looked out upon, just a rolling litany of farce and tainted 
mysteries over which a workshop sun is sinking. 

Reckless, of course, cared less. It is his job to contaminate every
jutting out object, whether flower or weed, stick or stone. 

He was wondering what his dog could possibly have left in his urine
sack, when a slow fearful voice vibrated in on the breeze. The sound of 
it, flowered with seasoning, broke down into whispers, and then licked 
back. He stood and listened, his mind full of electrical thoughts. 
‘Summer's stupidity,' he thought, ‘nothing but the soft, electric 
fingers of muse.'  He felt like a child teased by the immensity of his 
own enchantments and wishes. His September obsessions coming to haunt 
him, riding in on a harmonica's sigh. 

Reckless brought him sticks, attempting to obstruct his steady, mindless
stroll, but all were passed over. It was a walk of voyages and dreams, 
of whispers rising, then falling, leaving him with a desire to cry. ‘Is 
this inspiration,' he wondered, ‘a canvass sheet waiting for an idea, 
or the whisper of pity, disaster, drowning, or just the starry story of 
a love uncurling in the perfumes of life.' 

‘I love you, always.' Those words, rose-coloured, blew up around him and
soaked into him as if sea spray. Inexplicably, tears welled in his eyes 
and fell down his cheek, falling to the ground. 

Only the sudden sound of a police vehicle siren coming round the hill
disturbed his concentration. ‘Reckless, come!' The dog came and 
immediately sat at his masters heels. ‘Stay.' He commanded. The vehicle 
sped closer, winding its way down the single track road. It was a 
tricky drive, even in daylight, with a sheer drop of a hundred and 
fifty feet on one side. He again reminded the dog to be still, and the 
vehicle sped by. Rogue waves are common on this part of the beach, and 
it is likely, he thought, that a beachcomber had got into difficulty. 
He kept Reckless close by; believing a rescue tender would soon be 
following. Two months ago a man leapt to his death from this same 
cliff, less than quarter of a mile from where he stood. 

‘We should be getting back, Reckless. We said we'd only be an hour.' The
dog walked quietly at his heel. 


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