Rusty Long, with Most of his Life Behind Him, Had a Sadness Settled on Him

She saw him ahead
crossing the road
with dog on lead
A lithe man
blue jeans with black jumper
soft leather shoes
Mao hat

They crossed slowly
She had to brake
Reckless she thought
A little arrogant perhaps
expects traffic to stop for him
but no

They crossed two metres in front of her
and she smiled

Old man
Old dog
Heads down
Slow careful steps
Dignity shining out of them still

How had he arrived here, so far from his beginnings, so far from his world-wide travels?

At home next morning he sat in his favourite chair, with its thread-bare arms – morning sun pouring in through the window, and shifting sun-like across his legs. The dog had found her patch on the floor beside him. A guitar was propped against the chair. One hand moved towards it. Cradled in his left hand a pipe, alight, near his mouth for the next draw.

Spring was happening in the rambling garden just outside the window. A climbing rose had been trimmed to allow a view from the window – its blooms and buds hanging like a fringe across the top. Blackbirds were spreading sticks and soil – their song announcing the season as much as the swathes of daffodils.

Inside, the heavy beams of the old cheese factory gave a little creak now and then. He often looked up at them, found comfort in their strength, observed how they had been put together, and imagined the labour. He felt history in the dense stone walls, the flagstone floor. Spider webs aplenty were too high up to ever be dealt with. The pot belly stove he’d installed in the corner near his chair had left a smokey smell through the space.

Rusty Long was a lonely man. Hadn’t always been so. He knew the choices he’d made in his life had brought him here. There’d been a time he’d had mates in all corners of the globe. He’d lived in a man’s world but, as a tender and sensitive man, had been loved and appreciated by females as well. He’d come to a place of loving two women – a dangerous place he knew. One a stunning, fiery, wild-cat girl, the other the opposite. He knew he would have to choose between them, but he hadn’t done it in time, and was now alone. He realised he was grieving the loss of the gentle one.

He’d been a lead guitarist in a rock ‘n’ roll band – a muso most of his life. Ask him anything about songs, musicians, their lives, their loves and he would have something to tell you.

He’d invested in quality sound equipment. For a good part of each day, music filled the place.

On this morning, Rusty Long, with most of his life behind him, had a sadness settled on him. He looked down at his dog. She sensed his movement, and looked up at him.
‘Yeah’ he said.
She stretched and yawned.

A Darkside playlist had been running quietly through his Bose speakers. ‘Paper Trails’ began. He notched up the volume –

‘Better go and get hidden inside
Better go and get
head inside
I told you I would get you at the back of the house
I told you I would find a place to go

Paper trails on a mountain
and fruits on the table
A wooden house to live in
A baby take care of

The grass is green
but the sun is blue
Better find a way to get through
to you

Where are you when I need you
Where did you go
How can I find you when I need you
Where should I go

Paper trail on a mountain
Better find a way
Big trail on a mountain
You’ll find a way

The fire outside
is burning up the place
But you are inside
burning up my head

Paper trails on a mountain
fruits on the table
A wooden house to live in
A baby take care of ‘

– Darkside

(Listen to it if you can – sets a mood).

I’ve had this story brewing for a long time, but have been loath to begin. Fiction is something I have never attempted, and I’ve doubted my ability to undertake it. But I’ve always suspected that it would be an amazing feeling to start a story and have it lead you by the nose into a world anticipated but unknown. I have had a taste of it here. The story has begun.

Thank you faithful readers of my blogs. I don’t know who most of you are, but my website tells me there are some. It really helps to know I am writing for not just myself.

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Take care,

Warmly

Sue