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Message-ID: <45715asstr$1070619004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Goldberry <Goldberry12spam@hotmail.spamcom>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP - Tom Bombadil - Bench [ M/F, flash, surreal ]
Date: Fri,  5 Dec 2003 05:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Reposted with permission

Goldberry
Goldberry12spam@hotmail.spamcom (you can figure this out :)

Emails to me or posts to ass.d will also be read by Tom.

Enjoy!



Bench [ M/F, flash, surreal ]

By Tom Bombadil  (c) 1996
Short story #9


Disclaimer:  All the standard rules apply.  If you are offended by 
explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is illegal to 
possess such materials at your location, if you are under-age by law in 
your location, or if somebody else thinks you might have too much fun 
reading it, stop right now and remove this text from your computer.

This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions 
described by me coming straight out of my imagination.  As a work of 
fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or actions 
described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in my life, or 
known to me in the lives of any of my friends or relatives.

You've been warned.

I give permission for anyone to share or archive this story.

********************************************************************

It was dark.  I sat on the park bench, alone, crying.  I sat there - 
freshly wedded, freshly bedded, freshly deflowered.  My husband slept in 
our room, on our nuptial bed, snoring drunkenly, sharing it with a pink 
wet spot.

Tincture of lost innocence, lost hopes, lost dreams.

A man walked by, stopped, turned, and stared.

His eyes revealed nothing, yet hinted at everything - mystery, romance, 
danger.  My heart stopped, my tears stopped, and I stared back, too 
surprised to run, which is what I knew I should do.

He sat beside me.  I stared.  My objections were all silent, my 
rejection unvoiced.

His eyes held me, captivated me, sent me on a journey I'd never been on 
before.  He was blonde, he was tall, he was strong, he was silent.  His 
eyes spoke to me of my inner thoughts, of my hidden desires, of my 
needs.  Somewhere inside me a voice was screaming for me to flee.

He revealed himself.  On the bench, in the dark, in the park.  Then he 
revealed me.  I saw myself, reflected in his eyes.  I wonder what he saw 
reflected in mine.  He lifted me, he lowered me.  An eternity later he 
was gone.  I repaired myself and returned to my husband.

I lay there in bed, sharing it with a snoring groom, a drying pink wet 
spot, and a growing white wet spot.  I wondered.  

I wondered who he was.  I wondered what his voice sounded like.  I 
wondered if he had dreams.

I wondered whose baby I would carry.

This morning I shared breakfast with a smelly, grumpy, unshaven, 
decidedly hungover lout, who belched his approval of the previous 
evening.  I tried to recognize the clean, handsome, delightful man I'd 
married, but failed.

I thought of the man in the park.

I wondered if he would return.

Tonight, on the bench, in the park, in the dark, I will be waiting.

<Fin>

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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