“The Wedding Party” by Graham Lawrence

Ah, release! I glided slowly at first but then warming up nicely behind, and picking up speed. High, high, high above the low clouds, and viewed from above they were as cotton wooled carpet onto which you could step. A temptation. I wanted to take that now and walk and roll and play in that pure white shining mass washed in the intense glow of the sun so warm above me. I wanted to, but I could not stop for my destiny had been decided long ago by others greater than me.

Into the cloud and for a minute or less it was blindness. Wispy white all around me with the occasional ray of light, or occasional dark blur as faster I sped. Then out under the cloud. Under it a grey day. Grey but clear. Very clear and the rugged browns and greens of a land so far below. Not divided into little farms or hedgerows but barren and bleak, and dry and uninviting.

Faster and down, down, down. Longing to rise again, but however I urged myself to do so, unable. Pushed forever down. Headlong. Driven as by some force beyond my control. The land now coming faster and nearer, and then everything seemed so slow. The little rocky outcrops among the hills. The sparse wasteland with thick harsh vegetation. And no people now. And no houses. Just rocks and scrub and short stunted trees.

And now a house a small house is nearing me, or I it. And outside there are people. Lots of people. And I can see them coming closer. Colours, many colours and people young and old and children and men and women. Women together and men together and the men are moving rhythmically to some music. Music that is slowly different from what I have heard other people play. And a table with meats and fruit and exotic sweets, as I enter unannounced, and children playing and running and smiling. Everyone is happy. Suddenly I don’t want to be here. I want to go left or right, or back into the sky and up to the cloud, but whatever I want is useless. I cannot do anything but go on. I want to cry, to die, to be back in the barren wasteland of before, or frolicking in the cloud with the sun bouncing on me. To be anywhere but here.

I feel such a deep sadness in me. A sadness not because of my impending end, for that is my destiny, and what I deserve, but a sadness for seeing such happiness and joy, and knowing that the searing heat and intense light, and eventual rumble will bring such sadness and despair to those around me, and I don’t want to be the one to bring a moment of perfect harmony, beauty and merriment to a sudden confusing and painful end, where maybe even, I will as my last memory remember the screams and cries that I have caused. I don’t want this. I want to remember the hope and glee, and to know it will continue long after my passing. As I reach my crescendo, I know with a feeling of such weight and hurt that I do not want what I am predestined to achieve, to cause what I am doomed for.

Graham Lawrence is now retired and living with his wife in Thailand where they lead a quiet life. He now concentrates actively on his writing. Both trying to find, collate and post old work and to add new into the mix. This is currently a huge task as over a hundred pieces of old writing have been found in various states of completion and new work is being written fairly regularly. These works are varied. These works are now published on the Musings page of this website. Please have a read, and if you can be bothered, let me know what you think.

When not working on these things, Graham likes to enjoy good food and an occasional drink. He will at some point get round to restringing the guitar and strumming away, too. Long walks and thinking are his other great loves in latter day life.

Graham Lawrence is the editor of Eastlit, and his own writing can be found at: https://www.grahamlawrence.net/