.. over the edge ..

The cliff top was lonely.  Sad.  Upset.  Depressed.  The cliff top hated everything.  He couldn’t think of a single reason to live.  His only true friend, a fellow cliff top, had recently finished eroding.  The cliff top wandered around, feeling like he was falling apart.  Just a friend.  Anyone.  Some interaction.  It’s not as easy as you might think.  If you happen to be a cliff top that is almost begging for companionship, you will know that you tend to be treated like you’re crazy.  He sort of had a friend near the Women’s Institute, well more of a nodding acquaintance really, so he headed there.

                That’s when his cold dry dirt started to become colder and damper and mud.  He was crying because the tree, his last hope, had been removed.  Chopped down.  Burned down.  Pushed over.  Chain sawed.  Weeks holiday in Madrid.  It didn’t really matter unless, of course, you happened to be the tree.  Which, I assume, you aren’t.  He stood or sat, or whatever cliff tops do, and stared at the space the tree should have occupied.  Then, walking away, he passed the Women’s Institute and caught his reflection in one of the well cleaned windows.  He definitely looked smaller and the grass on his top was patchy.  He looked older.  He was older.  It was time to end it all (not the story – your tough luck really).

                But wait.  As we move in to paragraph three, he notices a young lady, actually better make that a woman.  So, I better do that again.  As we move in to paragraph three, he notices a young lady… Oh, not again.  Look, there’s a woman leaving the Women’s Institute and he notices her, okay?  Good.  He looked at her and wondered what could be a more satisfying end than jumping off a member of the Women’s Institute?  He approached her.  At first she looked uneasy.  After all, it wasn’t every day she was approached by a cliff.  In fact, it had only happened to her twice before.  She soon started to look a little more comfortable when she realised the cliff top didn’t have any intention of harming her (and, the writer told her to get her bloody act together).  She started to pity the balding, short – well short in cliff top terms – cliff top in front of her.  If she didn’t like it, she could always sod off to a Stephen King novel or something equally as ridiculous.

                Perhaps, before I go any further, I should apply for a passport.  Also, I should add that the cliff top only speaks French.  It’s a mystery to modern scientist’s, internet geeks and cliff top language experts – who expected the cliff tops in France to then talk English but they don’t.  They speak French.  Spanish cliff tops speak Spanish, Dutch cliff tops speak Dutch and American cliff tops speak something that just about resembles English.

                ‘What’s wrong?’, said the woman, predictably but conveniently enough to help advance the plot (what there is of it).

                ‘Personne ne m'aime.  Je suis tout seul.  Personne ne m'aime.’

                And off she ran, leaving the cliff top with thoughts of loneliness, rejection and abandonment.  Walking slowly, he started to conjure up further thoughts of suicide.  Methods.  The How to Write a Gripping Suicide Note book he had once read.  He started to approach the cinema where he contemplated watching a Bruce Willis film but, eventually, decided against it.  He wanted a quick and painless death, not the complete opposite.  That’s when the woman came rushing back towards him, clutching a French translation book.

                Whilst writing this next bit, somebody accidentally sprayed me with a can of Sentimental Wishy Washy Lovey Dovey Crap, so bear with me, my lovelies.

                ‘You’re not all alone’, she began, ‘and I love you.’

                Now some readers might be wondering why he can understand English but not talk it.  Well, he just can.  If you don’t like it, read something else.  Goodbye.

                Right, if you’re still there, glad to have you on board.  Now, I shall continue.

                ‘Vraiment?  Honnêtement?’

                ‘Yes I do.  I’ve noticed you around.  I’ve sensed your kindness, your compassion, your spirit and your beauty.  You send me over the edge.  I’m so in love with you.  Hold me closer my love.’

                So, they embraced.  It all got a bit too saucy to describe, though if you deposit ten pounds into my bank account – it is still too saucy.  Try twenty pounds.  Anyway, after all this embracing (if you paid for the saucy scenes – wipe your glasses now), they walked hand in hand down by the river bank.  Not an establishment that stores your river for it to collect interest.  They walked by the river, is what I meant.  So, there they were – on the moon they weren’t.

                I think the can of Sentimental Wishy Washy Lovey Dovey Crap is starting to wear off now, my ugly little readers.

                As they walked by the river, the cliff top became blue again.  Not in appearance but in mood.  Well technically in appearance as well because his bottom lip trembled.  He couldn’t help noticing that his lady friend was looking at a bridge.  She was looking too closely for his liking.  It didn’t matter too much because, as you’ll know, your average English bridge speaks German and she doesn’t.  But she was looking.  What a hussy, he thought to himself (yeah, he thinks in English – what’s your point?).  The feelings of depression, pain and loneliness came flooding back.  He started to get mad.  And, as they lay on the bank ready to sleep under the moonlight, he kissed her goodnight (well, he actually said, Bonne nuit’).  Once she was asleep, he stood on top of her and leaped to his death.  Upon waking, she saw her lover in a heap.  She cried and was in no fit state to go on.  She had to end her life too.  They would die at the end together – like in the most famous love story of all time, Over the Edge by Danny Marsh.  She climbed upon her lover (not for the first time) and jumped to her death.

THE END

Alternative ending;

FIN

.. back ..