08.31.06

and what a storm it was

This was the home of retired seashells.
Out in the Atlantic Ocean a storm brewed, faintly now causing the waves to grasp desperately for the shore. This was a beach of veteran shells resignedly pulverised into cool dust, so grey and deep it was the night sky�s shadow, only missing that slice of a quarter moon in its corner. That night it was smooth. It was unblemished save for the footsteps of some lonely men, which the waves sucked into themselves, erasing all evidence. The wind too, behind these men carried their footprints into the night. On this sand, their shadows became a little less grey.
The young ones came then, unexpectedly. They startled a small boy playing on his back porch as they went by, pausing for a moment his secret play. Did they see him? Would they tell? In his hand the metal wand glowed, the nitrogen burnt, danced. Into the air rose his halo of oxygen.
They had seen. She had seen. She would forget.
The young ones ate the beach with their meal; it clung stubbornly to their bodies in protest. More important now would be the sound of the waves- gentler now- and the rhythm of the chest moving beneath her.

shi-ou-sama at 10:13 p.m.

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