A little love lamp story

This is a little love lamp story about the salty sea in part and also about the subliminality of flying high...

“We are beginning our descent,” said the voice of the captain of the airbus, and then the seat belt signs flashed on.

The beautiful woman on the next seat was still sleeping since just after take-off so there was not much to do but watch a movie...

The little love lamp had much to learn so it grinned from ear to ear with a grin that came all the way from Kathmandu on the back of a postage stamp made in China.

Just then, number 7 was riding on the backseat of a motorbike and was holding on with both hands after failing to find the seat belt and could only think in terms of not falling off and so passed without seeing the rejection society under their umbrellas in the wet rain trying hard to resolve the myth of Adam and Eve’s belly buttons that can be seen in every painting of them that’s ever been done.

A contrary opinion floated into all this and set up shop in the wave that came from the large puddle that the motorbike went through.

The wave was two feet high and soaked the legs of the rejection society in their think tank causing them all to splutter in dismay at their soaking.

The little love lamp hiding in the pocket of number 7 on the motorbike went: “he-he,” through his grin and then disappeared forever, never to be seen again for five minutes.

A familiar discontent that was waiting to get a word in edge-ways slid in through the widening gap the contrary opinion was causing in the rejection society who were all about to spontaneously disband which was nothing new to them and happened every day for want of a better perspective to hold them all together.

The breeding grounds of stormy dustbins with the right to vote had other ideas and were just about to use them when number 7 on the back of the motorbike flashed past doing 80 in the rain and still holding on tight.

Another wave came and drowned them all and that was that for this part where no more words can be found to describe the events.

Not to be outdone by all this, a slow waiting game became available to all and sundry who had risen from the ranks to become chief inspector of the mines of doom and to bend miracles with a spoon around his finger, but couldn’t be reached just then by the telephone of inquiry and so missed out.

The moon, over in the ascending had risen by this time and was doing its rounds on little more than a can of peaches and all hands to the pumps and like this shone down on a rowboat slipping through the shadows full to the brim with cut-throat ruffians armed to the teeth heaving silently at the oars and followed closely by a flying ghost that glowed in the dark.

The salty dog on the pavement of expectation and soaked from the rain and desperate to get his wet clothes off turned into the neon glow of a dark bar where many brightly lit women were waiting for him.

He jingled the change in his pockets and their eyes shone bright.

“Load up the beers,” he called and made his way to the bar like a boat ploughing through the hungry sea.

The little love lamp sniggered as it flashed past outside in the pocket of number 7 on the motorbike that was now beginning to rust.
An ache in the heart over by a lovelorn window was undecided on how far to proceed and so called off tomorrow in favour of the pain it couldn’t deal with, which is exactly when the pain jumped ship and all’s well came along to brighten things up and found the ache in need of saving.

Under a solitary lamppost on the corner where the tide comes in on alternate days an occasional insistence of subliminality lit a cigarette and then blew smoke rings into the dark wet night that surrounded even to the edges of all that could be perceived.

Through all this, the expeditionary force of unconquered heroes dropped the bones of an unrequited love-stone at his feet and beat-it fast back into the dark night of the pen of the artist who was a blue dog on a green canvass and made from an inside smile and gave a recommendation to not blow up the bridge, but the bridge exploded anyway.

“Thank you very much,” said the artist and went off to read a book.

And then the screen went to the captain’s message: All on-board entertainment systems have now been shut off for landing.

“So that’s that then for the movie,” said the tall dark stranger to no one in particular yet leaning slightly towards the beautiful woman next to him who was finally awake.

She turned to him and they looked into each other’s eyes and fell immediately in love and from that moment on were entitled to all the love or lust they could make.

After the flight landed, number 7 roared by on the motorbike that was still going like the clappers, and from his pocket the little love lamp grinned and gave a wave.

Image from me