Lost
May was trying to recall what she was thinking that morning
when a man described as a writer hijacked her train of thought. She was
comfortably enroute, settling into her favourite seat in the near-empty cabin
with frappuccino and phone in hand when the 9:15 came to a rude halt.
She was apoplectic and disembarked in a huff to confront the
author of this hitherto unscripted development. May had a good mind to give it to him.
What's it all about? But right at the very instant she tapped the hack on his
back, the train lurched into motion. The mighty engine gave a tremendous bark
counterpointed with the panic-stricken shrieks of the departure whistle and she
quickly clambered back on board, leaving in a puff, the sorry scribe
still stranded on the platform staring into air.
So alone and for a long time, the writer stood bemused. For
his tale had set sail. And he tried to stay with his mind's eye for as long
as he could, as it dipped over the distant horizon like a tern on wing, rising
again and falling, and falling, over after, a final, shimmering. And he waited
still and he waited till he could recall it no more.
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