Veronica again…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s financial forecast is for quantitative easing to leak from its tin and stain the linoleum on the landing, and for small coins to jump out of the slots in their plastic money boxes.
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Oh no, another carefully wrapped pebble in the post from Veronica Crush, writer from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League, in New York. She says that it is a stone she picked up recently at the foot of Uluru or Ayers Rock, as it sometimes called, in central Australia. Frankly I don’t believe a word of it, and as I have said in a previous post I think that these stones she sends are probably from the gravel in a plant pot on her New York apartment window sill. You just can’t trust surrealists – and of course one must remember that they don’t have much of a grip on reality…
She did however send another of her ‘stories’ for us to read. She said that she typed this one whilst balancing the second volume of a two-volume hardback edition of ‘War and Peace’ on her head – she also added that she was sitting on Volume One.

Dan Dredge woke up with an inkling… He had an inkling that somehow that day was special; he could feel it; was this the day when he would realise for the first time in his life, that there existed some sort of logic, a hidden beautiful framework supporting the drab coarse fabric of reality?
Dredge was sitting on a slow-moving train; he had been snoozing, but was now wide awake. Another train moving a little faster than his, was leisurely overtaking on the next track. Blue/black evening was coming and the carriages had their lights switched on; he watched as they floated slowly past like a string of yellow glowing rooms.
Was that a movement at the bright window? A little brown and white dog panting with its pink tongue touching the glass… It looked just like Tim, his faithful childhood pet…
The parallel train moved on; he saw an old man sitting talking to a little boy; with a start he thought that the man looked a lot like Grandfather Dredge. No, no, he died many many years ago; but the resemblance was remarkable…
Dan knew now that something was going on; he sat up straight in his seat and peered into the other train. Look, there were his old school friends, young, smiling, some engaged in friendly fighting and hearty back-slapping, standing and bouncing on the seats; see, there was Mr Blackheart, the gaunt mathematics teacher standing by the door with a piece of white blackboard chalk held between two fingers at his side like a fat cigarette. Oh no, Dan didn’t want to see any more…
He looked away, but was compelled to look back. The parallel train had moved on; a lovely twenty year old Charlotte in a neat red suit and white, white, blouse was slowly waving and smiling at him across the dark flickering tracks; she was mouthing some silent words that he could not make out; there, in the next compartment was his father, quite young, sitting at a large ink-stained oak desk with a large black typewriter on it…
Dan turned his back on the fantastic scene and looked around the carriage he was in; the other passengers had gone, and for some reason the lights seemed to be gradually dimming as if dark night was creeping into the train; yes, the only light was now that spilling from the windows of the other train…
Dredge felt that he had to look out again; but he now guessed what he would see, even before he turned his head; yes, of course, there he was, a white-haired old man peering out into the gloom, perhaps looking at his own reflection in the darkened windows of some passing train…
Suddenly the trains took separate diverging tracks; Dan watched as the brightly lit companion accelerated away into the night, whilst his train seemed to be slowing down, as if preparing to pull into a station…
Dark bushes, old once white-painted fences, silhouettes of brick and iron Victorian railway buildings slithered past; then the train jerked, grunted, came to a halt, and then sighed… The engines fell silent with a shudder, and left Dan in the quiet and the darkness. A large rusty sign visible on the platform had the name of the station painted on it in faded, but elegant letters. It said…

Veronica Crush. Uluru 2012.

Note: Veronica suggested that I should fill in the name of the station, but I thought that I might leave that to you, dear reader…

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in books, brain, mind, story, surrealism, words, writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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