|Low Tide (standard:other, 2203 words)|
|Author: Eminescence||Added: Oct 27 2000||Views/Reads: 2304/1331||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A story focusing on a boy who wants to go to the beach...|
Authors note : This story came about more as an experiment with words and subtle character presentation than anything else. I hope you enjoy it and I welcome any comments anybody has. --------------------------------------------------- It was the earliest morning in June. It was like all the other mornings, only earlier. The boy didn't understand much about any of it. He didn't care really. All he wanted was to go to the beach. That was it. It wasn't much to ask, and because it wasn't much, (he would never get something that was a lot), they decided to oblige. 'Go to the beach,' they said,'but we're not coming.' It wasn't a surprise they weren't coming. They never came. He didn't even know who they were. The people that controlled things. He only know that if he left without asking... well, he only knew that if he left without asking... if he left without asking...If...He'd forgotten. So he gave up trying. It was a nice trip to the beach. The sun shone, but it wasn't warm. It was cloudy and cold. The sun shone behind the clouds and provided a cascading melancholy that he enjoyed residing in. He never understood why, it just seemed to fit in with everything else. There was a nice colour to it all that he could imagine. It reminded him of his pictures. Everything seemed blue, and so that's how he painted them. All blue. They'd tried to give him red once, so he stopped drawing. Well, until they gave him the blue back, then he started again. Right now though, didn't care about blue just then though... he wanted to go to the beach and he was going. It was a nice trip. As he crossed the final wall between him and the beach, the wind caressed his face. That was why he liked the beach, the wind never even came to visit in the large brick boxes he lived in. Houses he thinks they're called. He didn't know though. He never wanted to know because it seemed pointless knowing. It was a place to stay. He wasn't allowed to leave. Not without asking. If he left without asking... if he left without asking... without... he'd forgotten, so he stopped trying. He was there. This was where he was coming. The beach. He might have smiled. He thinks he did, but he doesn't know for certain. He knew he was here for a reason, but he wasn't sure. 'There is always a reason,' they'd told him,'you can't just smash a window for nothing.' It was difficult for him to understand. The window just was there, he was there, there was a brick. No point just sitting there like a brick he'd thought. He wanted to move. The rock looked melancholy, the rock looked blue, he thought, maybe it wants to move too. So he moved it through the window. He gave it a place to stay. In the brick boxes. After a long while, he told them. That was the reason he said. 'No, that wasn't the reason,' they told him,'you did it on purpose, because your bad.' They didn't make sense. Of course he'd done it on purpose, couldn't throw rock's through window's by accident. It couldn't do it itself, so he'd purposefully helped it. they said it was a bad thing. He didn't understand how helping something could be bad. He didn't understand. He stopped remembering. He'd wandered. Reasons. That was it, there was a reason he was here, at the beach. Castles... He thought it was castles. Something about castles, and sand. Castles of Sand. That was it. Castles of sand. He thinks he smiled. He couldn't be sure though. He forgets things like that sometimes. He looked down at the sand, it was orange, with hints of blue. HE thinks maybe it has something to with the sky. This was sand. he picked it up and it slipped out of his hand. Things always slipped away. Fell away. This sand wasn't right, it wasn't the right type for Castles of Sand. Too.. Too.. not wet. Further toward the sea he needed to go. That was where he needed to go. So he did. He walked. It wasn't very far after all. It seemed to take him a long time. He thinks it's because the sea kept making him stand still. It always takes a long time to get somewhere when you keep standing still. The sea, it was nice. It was blue. Blue, with hints of blue. It fitted with everything. He could paint the sea really well with the blue. And it moved. he liked things that moved, he didn't have to help them through windows. He didn't have to hear shouting. He didn't like the shouting. There seemed no need for it... it only made people's ears hurt. Something else hurt too but he never understood what it was... He found it hard to understand sometimes. Click here to read the rest of this story (113 more lines)
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