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The Cry of the Gull
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The Cry of the Gull
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She carries the taste of him, the thought...white noise in her head.
The lost time staring through windows at waving trees. The excitement
of electronic encounter. Memories from a velvet box...reaching in ASCII
to keep them real.
Eight thousand miles is a not unimaginable distance, it is less than
that between failed lovers. It is hours on a jet, funds from the
bank...logistics. It is less than her sick certainty that he favours
distance, less than her awareness that she failed to be real but carries
him in her breath and touch. That is real.
Real as three days in Queens Hotel, by the sea. A deep sill and smug, small
window. A sill from which she viewed him sleep. She could taste
him...breathe in syncrony. A time when the touch and smell of him was
implanted. It never left her, even after he moved on...and then moved
on again.
His legacy; a blaze of blue eyes and a knowledge on her encircling lips,
her surround of him...then wet on his sharing mouth. Her body
knows...he is imprinted. Her pulse remembers. And the moist moving
of him, lowered to her thrilled hollows, her swollen folds. Months
later, miles apart...she feels him hard in her.
Eight thousand miles, six months and still she feel the texture of
him in the quest of her fingers. The sharp excitement of his entry
and her pulsing.
She falls in love...and he moves on...and then moves on again.
There is a love she makes when saying farewell. Desperately hoping,
hopeless. The warm sheen on close flesh...a desperately aching
aliveness. It is an expression of pain..and loss. The last exquisite
anguish.
This love is surrogate. A supplication and a surrender.
She tears her awful gaze from a screen and finds solace in brown eyes.
The man draws her hunger to him. They mount the stairs and she,
ecstatic with memory, shares with him the legacy. It is painfully
sweet. This trailing of warm lips along him, tongue seeking. A
slow-reeling choreography of moving self. It is everything she gives,
tearing veils...pure suffering and absolute giving. It is a
benediction and a grace. It is taking, forgiving. The man trembles
beneath her then fills her yearning with his bitter cum. She rolls
it in her mouth for a long time. It has to last forever.
And all she sees is blue eyes...hears the sound of a mute sea, swelling
to meet the aching cry of the gull.
This loving is a funeral...it is grieving. It is a death and
not-acceptance. It is a phantom which haunts each early dawn. It probes,
twists, exhilerates then invades...a deep pure pain. It does not leave.
She knows it is going to be a long mourning. She knows she has no guide
through this dark tunnel.
She moves alone in pain, bearing his bequest.
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Copyright 1993 Pat O'Brien
All permissions reserved except for the right to distribute in
electronic text form across computer networks.
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