alfie lee writing

 

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 inopportune scribe stranded on the platform staring at 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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