The Furthest Place
Such white sands as footprints never before tracked across; such clear waters as were never swept behind in gliding strokes. A palm tree with lazy leaves framing the scene from abundant angles. And quiet; only the slosh of a hand in still water came when eyes were closed. Nothing else. This was a sand-circled hump in the azurest sea.
Our hero paces the island. His back dries behind him, salt stinging when he stops to pull on a shirt. He hums. Falls to his crossed legs. Next to his towel are sandy sunglasses which he puts on to stare at the flat horizon. This must be the furthest place, he concludes. Far enough, at least.
"Hello," he calls, and not a fish to hear him. He takes off his sunglasses. Lies back, and sleeps.
Thundercrack. He wakes up with his hands deep in shadowed sand - the sea-green bulkhead approaching fast. He takes his towel and glasses and trots quickly towards the framing palm and its dancing leaves. Hangs the towel over it. Wears the glasses again, then removes them. Folds his arms and jitters his leg. Lightningflash. It hits a swelling wave in the blackening sea.
A deeper shadow coats the shadowed island and our hero looks up to the sky; is punched in the cheek by fat cloudspit. The ceiling is pot-bellied and green still. Hail, he concludes. He goes to the ground and crams his neck under the curve of the palm-trunk. Across the ocean great waves break into white over unseen corals, but these lapping shores remain gentle. Gentle enough that he sees the sheet of bulletholes coming quickly closer. Hail, he concludes.
And all at once a hundred dimples in the sand; the tat-a-tat of blows to the palm trunk against his neck; the cold wind that creeps beneath his still-crossed arms. The leaves dancing now with a violent partner. Even the serene curve of shore is tugged and spread by heavy waves.
All around him the hail bounces. It bounces from the trunk, bounces from the leaves; bounces off his leg and bounces around the island. The white beads rest and seep into the sand. When the last bead has bounced and melted in its bed and all that remains is rain, endless skin-splashing rain, our hero stands. Stretches the towel above him and pads down to the push-pulling shore. Around the sand-hump's circumference.
He stops. Crouches. Rain still pattering on the covering towel. Resting in its crater, a hail-sized jewel. Glimmering ruby. He looks to the grey sky and it punches him thrice, thrice again, twice more. He looks back to the fallen gem and scoops it up along with its crater. Lets the sand seive between his fingers. The ruby rolls into the bowl of his palm. Squeezes it shut, forever captured.
Our hero stands. Looks out to flat horizon. Paces the island's circumference once again.
Our hero paces the island. His back dries behind him, salt stinging when he stops to pull on a shirt. He hums. Falls to his crossed legs. Next to his towel are sandy sunglasses which he puts on to stare at the flat horizon. This must be the furthest place, he concludes. Far enough, at least.
"Hello," he calls, and not a fish to hear him. He takes off his sunglasses. Lies back, and sleeps.
Thundercrack. He wakes up with his hands deep in shadowed sand - the sea-green bulkhead approaching fast. He takes his towel and glasses and trots quickly towards the framing palm and its dancing leaves. Hangs the towel over it. Wears the glasses again, then removes them. Folds his arms and jitters his leg. Lightningflash. It hits a swelling wave in the blackening sea.
A deeper shadow coats the shadowed island and our hero looks up to the sky; is punched in the cheek by fat cloudspit. The ceiling is pot-bellied and green still. Hail, he concludes. He goes to the ground and crams his neck under the curve of the palm-trunk. Across the ocean great waves break into white over unseen corals, but these lapping shores remain gentle. Gentle enough that he sees the sheet of bulletholes coming quickly closer. Hail, he concludes.
And all at once a hundred dimples in the sand; the tat-a-tat of blows to the palm trunk against his neck; the cold wind that creeps beneath his still-crossed arms. The leaves dancing now with a violent partner. Even the serene curve of shore is tugged and spread by heavy waves.
All around him the hail bounces. It bounces from the trunk, bounces from the leaves; bounces off his leg and bounces around the island. The white beads rest and seep into the sand. When the last bead has bounced and melted in its bed and all that remains is rain, endless skin-splashing rain, our hero stands. Stretches the towel above him and pads down to the push-pulling shore. Around the sand-hump's circumference.
He stops. Crouches. Rain still pattering on the covering towel. Resting in its crater, a hail-sized jewel. Glimmering ruby. He looks to the grey sky and it punches him thrice, thrice again, twice more. He looks back to the fallen gem and scoops it up along with its crater. Lets the sand seive between his fingers. The ruby rolls into the bowl of his palm. Squeezes it shut, forever captured.
Our hero stands. Looks out to flat horizon. Paces the island's circumference once again.
posted by bsjezz at 11:23 PM
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