Young Writers Society

As his eyes turned to the girl in the sand, he wished his soul would stop torturing him like this. Covered in sand, she seemed to be letting her spade teach her a lesson on the dynamics and nature of sand. But she was getting bored; she could do what the adults did. She was the queen of her universe, and the it seemed only right that the world would provide for her, only her, eyes and voices, only for her.

But he noticed his eyes had sunk into his face, and he was smiling. Picturing the girl in shades of brown. Browned eyed, maybe freckled. A little bit of all the lovers he had had. All that eventually left him, gauging his love for them by the spirit and life of his seed. And some were patient, but after Chantal’s miscarriage, he wouldn’t put himself through it again. Not ever again.

It was a sleepy Thursday morning. It was overcast and it seemed the whole world had strolled, sleep walking probably, into morning far too quickly. “What do you make of your life today Mr. Lazy-boy-summertime” he asked himself. He didn’t know. Life as a game. Keep it rolling, keep it coming. He wished he could still live his life in transit. As he left his thoughts be far flung, they didn’t seem to have the legs for a sweeping view into the future. It was almost as if it was pressed for time, to fit a history into a box, to tame time, so he could see it in some earthly form, to fit into the bullet hole slots in his mind.

She got up, patted herself down and looked around for a place to put the spade. “Now what was it those adults did with this.” The unquestioning spirit of learning. The stunting of the human spirit came from the unnecessary questions we asked. The inability to accept the futility of the questions, to stop at the mere appreciation at having such an insight, of having the ability to ask these questions at all. But when your lost and hopeless, you can only drudge through life in hope of a higher truth. Lost in thought, and his misery, He forgot Ming was sitting next to him. He wished she never came at all. He wished he could apologize to her and tell her that she could go anywhere she felt like. That she was free now. That she would have probably found more happiness in the brothels of Honk Kong, than she would beside him. She was a life decision he didn’t make; it was a choice he made so people would not remember him as a genre of conversation or category of human tragedy.

As she clenched onto his arm, looking around, oblivious to the setting sun and baby girl, he thought there was something beautiful about the terror in her eyes. Obscene yet beautiful. Everyone’s beautiful. Everyone. And when life is dragging you around, and wonders why you haven’t complained about your arthritic hip or why you have your face turned away, tears from stepping over the line seem to surround you, burning you, like a animal is burning in heat. The cock tease of pain. The flaccid cock tease of life. Getting down to his knees, gravel meeting sand, he was tired of this life. He closed his eyes tight, holding god by his hand, before he left heaven, to listen to him. Listen to an impotent mans prayer.