Chapter 14

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

The ongoing story of the poet Ron Bustard who resides in rural Australia and continually falls in love with innaccessible women and has to deal with small town cruelty and mendacity. The women who'll never love him and the men who want to kill him. He'll never run out of material

Chapter 14 of 'In Search of the Bush'

Another futile attempt at a first line for his unfinished novel, In Search of the Bush.

"He still loved her, although she'd only ever given him pain, but his suffering made him felt exquisite and made him feel alive; it justified his existence and he had nothing else to think about but death."

Maybe the loneliness was getting to him, or the fact that he was running out of Scotch and would have to walk into town again. Damn! Six kilometres to and fro. It was cold and raining and if he so much as sneezed in the Foodworks supermarket they would refuse to serve him. It was a dilemma. He still dreamt about Emma, the Sooky Girl, or were they nightmares?

It was Mayday, but he had no Maypole, no hope and no love, but it had been that way for years. The Can Can was playing on the Classical music station, but he didn't feel like dancing. He thought about composing a tune called the Can’t Can’t, but why bother? "Odysseus in the Underworld my arse!" he yelled, which was a lame classical music joke, in case anyone was listening. But nobody listened anymore.

It just got worse by the day and winter was on its way. Yes, he might die when the cold really set in, but it was his own fault. He hadn’t made the required provisions. He'd lost the meagre will to go on. No-one wanted to hear about his misery and that was all he had nowadays, that and eternal loneliness. She only lived two kilometres from where he dwelt, but had never visited him and he no longer visited her due to social distancing restrictions and because seeing her only accentuated his feelings for her. Why was life such utter Hell? he thought. The internet was down, so he couldn't even receive hurtful messages from her anymore.

“It could be worse,” he could imagine someone claiming, but he would be forced to negate that notion. What could be worse than the emptiness of oblivion, loneliness and lovelessness? Walk six kilometres in his slippers for whisky and tobacco in the cold and rain and see how you'd feel. Yes! He was sure that others had it worse. Those in cells awaiting death or starving in Third World nations. That is all very well, and he was sorry for them, but he would gladly swap places with them, but at the moment nothing was worse than being hated by a woman he loved so much and the unending cruelty of his life. But he no longer needed love. He just needed more whisky and a quick and a painless demise to stop him feeling so despised. Was that too much to ask? he wondered.

 


Submitted: May 01, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.

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hullabaloo22

This captures the isolation of social distancing - especially without internet. As bad as it was, the separation might have been even worse if she felt the same way.
Very well-written as always.

Sat, May 2nd, 2020 7:09pm

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Poor Ron and his unrequited love for Emma the Sooky Girl. He'll probably get over it, eventually. Besides, he knew she loved him alittle bit; just not enough.

Mon, June 1st, 2020 5:43pm

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