A collection of short stories and journalistic commentaries depicting my simple life
and how I fit in with the modern day universe of our times

ROMANCE




It was the early spring of 1912 and there was quite a good breeze coming in from over the ocean. Matilda leaned against a large stone and thought of her sweetheart Patrick. She thought of their last evening together when she had leant back into his arms as he rested on the same old rock.

She asked of him, "Patrick my dear, what is love?"

He kissed her cheek, stroked her reddish brown hair and softly said, "Love is the light of that old marshmallow moon up there in the sky, it covers your body with sweetness, it chases the night away from your skin."

Matilda giggled and said to him, "Now Patrick, are you trying to seduce me with your poetic whispers by any chance?"

He put his hands on her bare shoulders and said, "Irish women, they’re always dancing over a man's well meant words."

She pinched him on the leg, leaned back against him and said, "Carry on then, I shall not interrupt my good lord again."

Patrick kissed her shoulder and said, "Now where was I? Oh yes, the marshmallow moon light is the sweetness of love, the stars are the kisses and the winds are the hands."

He kissed her shoulder again and whispered in her ear, "The ocean carries its voice of true love, crashing into the shores; asking of your heart, tell me your desires."

Matilda melted into his arms and softly said, "I do so love you my Patrick McFadden."

They saw the ferry boat heading for Dingle and knew it was time for them to go home.

That was to be the last night that 15 year old Matilda would ever see her Patrick. He kissed her goodbye by the gate of the family’s old farm house and sailed off for America on the very next day.

Her father had told her about the iceberg that had taken down the RMS Titanic, the passengers and crew. Bravely, Matilda only smiled and told her father not to worry.

And ever since that fateful day, Matilda would walk up the pathway to the cliff on every night there was a bright moon. She would stand just a few feet from the edge, unbutton her dress, pull it apart and shout these words across the dark ocean.

Patrick... my lovely Patrick,
Let the marshmallow moonlight;
Sweeten my soul,
Kiss me with your stars,
Let the wind be your hands,
Touch me my Patrick.
Send me the waves of your whispers.
Love me sweet Patrick... Love me.

She would sway about and sing, not with words, but with beautiful moans of pleasure. Her dress would dance in the wind behind her. It was as if the ghost of Patrick McFadden was making love to Matilda right there and then on the cliff face.

Even in the winter months, Matilda would be seen standing at the edge of the cliff, unbuttoning her long gray over-coat and revealing herself to the night.

Needless to say, Matilda wouldn't live to see her 18th birthday. Pneumonia took her young life in the winter of 1914. Hardly surprising really was it?

And who says I can’t do romance?






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Its my own fault really, its all about what I see in the world, and how it all translates for me.

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