The following is a simple writing. Each piece was written in
under 10 minutes with no preparation or familiarity with the statements that
were to be provided.
We got up at 8, and the whole house was a bustle, Boxes and
bags lined the walls outside doors like so much trash, but colored with a
starburst’s palette, bright greens and reds and yellows, always framed or
speckled with white.
Smells of bread and cold meat mingled with salt and
sunblock. The steady procession of men proceeded to the van, laid down with
straps and stacks. While Women scurried about, checking every door, every
window, and themselves in every mirror.
As the car filled, and few were left in the house, they
checked and rechecked, until one had seen it all, and then we were off. Not
like a shot, but like a turtle, who thought he was a hare. The engine roared
but the van, more full than it would have, rocked and leaned as much as it
rolled forward, until there was enough speed to hold it all down.
Once the car slowed to a halt, the doors cautiously slid
open, but the people were anything but. They scrambled out in a scene too
common in sinking ships and burning buildings, but they were not fleeing from
but fleeing to.
Loose stones and sharp grass gave way to rough pavement,
well heated in the
And just as the crashing waves were in sight, one last
obstacle, the bubbling sand, creeping into and over wherever it could.
Once again as you tried to fly over the sand, you were
pulled deep into those fiery depths by the many yokes across your shoulders and
around your neck. Many trails glitter with the precious things whose value
dwindled before heat or cold, but no sooner does a gust of sand fly, hauntingly
reminiscent of foamy sea spray, then a screeching voice raises the alarm, and
your fingers wrap around a steel handle, and feel how hot it has become.
But then the site is reached, chairs and shade set, and you
are free.
Running down the sand so fast you struggle to keep your feet
from falling behind. Sheets of ragged water kick up like flaps of a torn tent
as you crash through, tripping as the water reaches up above your knees.
But you didn’t trip, you dove. You can move much faster now,
with your hands and your feet.
Soon enough you clamber back up to shore, expelled from the
sea like a marooned sailor, but how many laughed at their good fortune, it’s
time for lunch.
With the cold of the sea running down your skin, the sand
doesn’t feel so bad, every step cooling in your touch.
Down the planks, across the street, to grandmother’s house
we go. What does it matter that she’s not yours, she’s a grandmother, with all
the simple sweetness and wrinkled grins that bind the very old, and the very
young.
Hot dogs steaming inside their brightly shining aluminum, a
can of Sunkist sweating at the thought of facing the sun, and twin disks of
thick dark bread, standing guard like two castles reaching above and below to
protect the soft skin of their alabaster maidens.
The register rings as cards pop up to display their price,
powered not by electricity but by her fingers.
Of course you would like to devour your goodies right on the
doorstep, but you can’t. No words are needed to make you wait. Your arms cradle
many wax paper bundles, while both hands try to contain those that rest on top,
rolling like square wheels.
Hands reach out to snatch their own, and only your quick
moves keep what’s yours from vanishing with the rest.
And so, at last, you eat. The crunch of a few bites confirms
that sand kicked up by a heavy footstep has in fact found its way into your
food, but once you stop worrying, you realize that it actually tastes better.
Books come out, and straw hats become night caps, but that’s
not for you.
Waters have receded, and a thousand shallow pools dot the
dark plains.
Soon castles emerge beside lakes and moats, while crabs
wander, knights without a king.
It’s time for a walk you say. Someone among the group puts
down their book or mumbles out of their sleep, and you’re off.
The damp sand has become a fair, filled with jugglers,
paddlers, architects, and sculptures. As time passes many prepare for the
ocean’s onslaught, some with high walls, others with deep holes, but we keep
walking. Better to go back when it’s all gone, than to see it slowly eaten
away.
Soon the gentle sheets curl into each other, and crash
within inches of their border. No one makes it far, and most either ride above,
or tumble within, thrown back to shore like some vile bite that could not be
swallowed.
(To be continued…)
