Wednesday, February 20, 2013


  I am sinking.  Waves of foam wash over me and I have nothing to hold onto-nothing to keep me afloat.  Strings of thick sea weed cover my arms and my legs, pulling me downward.  The salt water has begun to enter my lungs and try to stop me from breathing, but I am kicking still.  I am motioning to those off shore, the ones that have made it to land and trying desperately to get their attention but they do not see me.  My feet feel something swimming by, but I cannot see it and I can only hope that I won't be eaten alive.  I push and pull the sea weed from me, as it clings and finally I am able to free myself.  I swim, barely breathing, to shore and throw myself upon the sand as if I were dead.  I am finally seen.  Typewriters sit nestled into the beach.  Pieces of paper in them; their keys beat down from repeated use.  I see that those on shore have clustered together around the base of a palm tree.  Struggling to get up, I press my palms into the sand and rise.  My heart beats faster as I come to my feet and I see that those around the palm tree have pencils and pieces of paper in their hands.  They are writing.  Emerged in their work, they do not see me.  I know because I am one of them.  I stand and look back at myself, wet and battered.  I do not know who that person is, for I am neatly dressed and fabricating a story on the pieces of paper nestled in my hand.  Who is this person from the sea?  What plans does he have for us?  I warn the others and run at him with my sharpened pencil, like a dagger.  I run at me.  I stab his flesh and pierce his heart and all awhile, the crowd lingers on to speculate the happenings and to record and after "I" am dead and thrown into the sea, my bloody body holding onto the waves in lumps and bumps, he turns back-walking to the palm tree-recording what is important.  He never mentions me or what has become of me or what he has done to me.  There is only the beating silence of what has happened.  The crush of the sun to recall what was said and the rotting fruit on the vine. 

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