Thunderbolt

By Liisa Jones

A strong and big rugby man meets a fragile dreamer.
They both have a long life behind, how about forward?
This story is as true as life can be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liisa Jones
• Release date: Apr 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739738518

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Thunderbolt_eCover.jpg

Copyright © Liisa Jones

Published by Roses Publishers

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-7397385-0-1

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-7397385-1-8

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

The characters of this book are based on real people,living or dead.

Cover design and layout by www.spiffingcovers.com

...The peacock bends his head from this side and that

With unthinking natural restlessness

His detached stare

Pays not the slightest attention on the marks in my note-book.

If the letters were insects he would look:

He would not then regard a poet as utterly useless.

I smile at the peacock’s solemn indifference,

Observe my writing through his eyes;

And indeed the same aloofness

Is in the entire blue sky,...’

Rabindranath Tagore

Translated by William Radice

Point

1

Anyhow.

What’s the point?

Surely she tries to find it out.

Leaving people and places about one hundred times feels like escaping and that is near the point.

‘But,’ she truly thinks, ‘that is not my fault.’ The ruling Gods enjoy themselves by watching how life is cruel to a naive and kind person like me.

She knows that comes near the point.

‘But,’ she knows, ‘life is not fair anywhere.’

How on earth have I, me, survived?

Because some strange, strong and edgy love for all people and different places and beautiful things there lives deeply in the corners of my gentle heart. Loving kindness survives under attacks and pressure. And what nearly always happens is that they, mostly men with high profiles, they, they breathe enthusiastically irresistible drug of power they find through me into their hungry lungs and eager brains.

‘So, I make them feel superior.’

‘I see it but I let it be because I have love in my heart.’ Then they, men, just go on using their magic drug till it all turns sick and I get sick and that’s that. And then they, men, never believe that I am able to walk away after all my weakness and all my love.

‘It is funny,’ she laughs.

It is not funny but men have always been after me as far as I remember and it is not funny that I have not noticed that obvious thing and at least not understood why and I never have believed that I have that magic appeal that creates magic love drug until lately when I started to count my results in life and I ended up counting those men.

Part of me becomes serious.

‘Counting men is not good for purpose of life,’ my brain argues with me, and of course I find myself in some strange bed. Not that I have been in many different beds, usually not, mostly if I have it has lasted long, ten years, well, my doomed marriage was twenty-three years.

‘You can’t even sleep here,’ I accuse the man in front of me.

‘Where have I been two nights?’

‘Here.’

‘I know,’ she admits.

But not during all the night. He sits hours in his armchair watching brochures or telly or house sales from a tablet, every night.

‘So,’ she reminds herself, ‘I formulate words in a wrong way,’ and she understands, that is important enough to change heavy anger into his features like cruel life itself sweeps through the surface of an ocean.

His English is perfect.

Mine is not.

He likes language.

Well, me too.

And logic, too much.

Yes, we are two different kinds of persons.

His logic is clear and mine comes from efforts to reach changing moments and feelings. He is there, one metre away, there, looking strong and tall and hard like not human.

She is more than fascinated.

‘I have never seen that hard a sportsman so near,’ she tells herself.

‘And I know,’ she knows, ‘his hard comments change very soon in my mind into high admiration.’

‘I don’t care of real reality,’ she would like to shout.

Neighbour Arabs who caused their bitter leaving in Sweden feel all funny in seeing this far, in Cornwall. His car broke down in icy cold Denmark and it was not so funny. Damn bad. It was cold early spring when leaving and he dumps the car on some sideway.

‘And,’ she still shivers from the horrible coldness, ‘he drags me along icy and cold and windy streets trying to find a hotel till I get enough of it and I go into a pub to ask.’

‘I’m not going to any pub,’ he shouts.

He doesn’t ask anybody anything ever but he comes after me and I see men with eager eyes turn serious seeing his tall figure standing behind me.

It was funny and they tell nicely where the hotel is.

Then I, me, put money to the hotel’s expensive desk day after day, feeling love and pity. He is still making hopeless efforts to save the car of his heart, a red Fiat designed by assistance of Michael Schumacher.

She is serious again.

‘It is money and money is serious,’ she tells herself.

Those memories fade to the air from my unstable mind.

Being me, I remember the lovely fitness room in the hotel basement and after exercise in every machine once and twice we find outside around one corner, under that horrible icy wind, a warm Indian cafe where the owner gives us all kind of drinks, kind, friendly, whatever. I remember that, and my big sportsman remembers stupid people in arrogant country taking money from him in every turn around.

The force to dump his red Fiat doesn’t make him feel great. Here in Cornwall, Marazion, he is concentrating