Flash - Inspiration

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Author searches for inspiration

Submitted: April 05, 2012

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Submitted: April 05, 2012

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Musings

by

Declan J Connaughton

 

Sitting on the wine coloured seat, staring blankly at the screen in expectation of drama, Hercules Dux Ferrariae, Nomos No.1 for String Orchestra booming and undulating through the headphones: where did that beloved Cork genius draw his inspiration from; arranging violin one way and the roar of full symphony the next?  Onward goes The Herding of the Calves, losing the listener in contemplation amid the greyness of the morning…..lost for some time, amidst the pastoral romanticism of Cul Aodha—ultimately the long dead President’s Ireland.

Land, water and root….and language—teanga—always that, but calling to him more insistently of late.

The face staring through the glass door draws him back; black feline with the emerald eyes; companion one day, distracting wretch the next, pointed ears ready for anything, unblinking eyes staring straight through him, unsettling, uncanny. 

What are you thinking, my love?

Rising now, dragging his feet, barely a word composed, but needing to escape the task all the same, maybe find something along the journey to the local shop.  A moment’s procrastination, then head and shoulders covered with light winter coat (even though it’s technically spring) accentuated with cap; the black one, making a refreshing change from the usual battered patchwork.

Locking the doors firmly against the would-be intruder, neurotically checking it several times, feet hesitantly guiding him out into the garden, which is the same as it was yesterday and the day before that; signs of growth and rebirth an illusion, except for the weeds who have no compunction displaying themselves.  He is anxious for something to bloom, explode from its chrysalis, justifying someone’s remark that he has green fingers.

The road is quite this time of day, with the exception of mothers pushing buggies and middle aged house wives in track suits running to stave off the inevitable date with the reaper.  He smiles at their painful, hobbling shins as they pass him by, faces set in grim determination.

No good, sweetie……I know that now.

Landscaped properties passing him on every side, a bus belching diesel fumes hastening to make the schedule--he is sure the passengers remark on how fat he is—look at that fat slob—his eyes dart furtively away from the windows peering behind expensive lace curtains; all the lonely people just standing there immobile, maybe with cooling tea and coffee in hand, as morning passes into afternoon and then evening and the blackness of night again. 

Do you eat your dinners at those windows, eyes growing fainter, losing their radiance with age and letting life slip away?

He pays for the paper, doing an about turn, saluting a stranger who barely nods back, passing through the door with all the advertisements pasted to it, commencing the walk back, possibly taking the exact same steps, like squares written in chalk upon the concrete. 

He resumes his seat and picks up the earphones again, changing to an Adagio this time.  The screen still sulks as his fingers begin working the keyboard.

 

End


© Copyright 2020 Declan J Connaughton. All rights reserved.

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