Chev, Star, Krowley and I were just talking about stories and then I remembered I never posted this one, whoops. It's also a short-short like the other two original stories I posted recently. As it was for class, the main objectve was to try and get a feel for the style of a writer (Yasunari Kawabata in this case, wrote these really lovely shorts, we ended up reading a few from a collection of his), and try to adapt it for our own purposes. Dunno if that happened or not so H E R E W E G O: Spoiler Today, I am going to visit the beach once again. The breeze greets me with a light kiss to the cheek as I close the door behind me. The sun showers over me; the rays sprinkle my fair skin tan, and I bask in its oven glow. At first, it it is cold. It stings through my flesh. Then, it warms; my skin smarts beneath the quiet heat. It wraps me in its covers and keep me stuck to it. It is me, and I am it. Yet, the embrace is as temporary as time. The covers leave me, and I am left to myself once more. The sun says farewell, and the sky splits open to night. I continue to the beach, lead feet dragging themselves forward. I see the town rise and fall before my eyes. The broken down shops cling to the shadows. There are children running about, but I do not hear them. They are gone to me, foreign bodies invading my view. They will be a disease that plagues me, just like everything else that reminds me of her. By now, she has grown into a woman. She has little to no recollection of me. It pains me with each step through the minutes. With each mile I walk, with each hour that passes, she will be further gone. I remember it quite clear; one day, she was here, a sleeping angel in her cradle. I fell asleep in the shadow of my wife, the peace of the scene lulling me to sleep. When I next opened my eyes, the angel was gone and the shadow had fled. The pavement turns to sand beneath my feet. Water rises and falls on the shoreline. I bend over in the sand, my finger making lines in the earth. Even now, twenty years gone past, I still try to trace her cheekbones in the surface, trying to recapture the image in the throes of memory. Maybe if the image is preserved, she will return. Maybe the memory can give way to reality, and I would have the sleeping angel once more. I almost have her face, when my fingers spasms, and a line crosses through it. I kick and stomp through the sand. I am crying, I am lost. Memory is an embrace, and no more durable than time.
