Jester
01-22-2005, 12:11 AM
Comments most definatly welcome..
Story of mine, short, I first wrote it several years ago but i come back to it frequently.
“Hush...if you’re real quiet you can make out the words in the wind,” I said to myself. The blue waves rolled over on themselves softly and quietly. The deep blue sky shone from thousands of glittering lights and the large full moon cast velvety silver on the shore. I spread out my arms beckoning the sea breeze to attack me. “Come to me; come to me,” I cried letting my voice echo into the dark. I could hear footsteps behind me. Voices laughed and hands pointed. I wanted the dead, the sea spray, the souls of the gone. I wanted them, to be one of them again. I was once dead, then cast back into this reality with my memory intact, a horrible position to be in mind you. I remember the storms and how we would play and laugh in the storms. I wanted that again. I wanted them again. And here I find myself beckoning to the wind and waves and spray, beckoning to the dead to play with me again.
I twirled around and ran toward the audience, leaping into the white sand, startling them. They laughed and applauded repeatedly after the initial shock. I stamped my feet and kicked sand in the air. It fell like soft snow, gently falling on my hair and face and all over them and around them. My hands flailed wildly as I dashed in and out of the crowd. “Hush,” I shrieked. The clapping died and they leaned forward ever so slightly. “And you might make out the words in the wind,” I whispered so softly that my voice was like the wind itself. But I would hear the words in the wind. I could hear the dead leaping and dancing along the cliffs and in the water.
I made a giant leap back towards the water throwing up sand with my movements. They clapped louder and more people danced feeling the beat of a distant drum and the now crashing waves. They yelled and screamed words that were not words. Their voices meddled with the wind’s, the sea’s and mine. They leapt and ran and spinned never outdoing me. Soon they lay on the ground dizzy and exhausted but I still moved to the music in my mind. I stopped, turned to the ocean and screamed, “Come to me!” A burst of wind and ocean spray hit me like a fist. I fell back hearing the sighs of the audience. They too had felt the power and the movements of the dead. They stared at me as if I were crazy but I was not. I only searched for spirits and souls of the wandering dead.
The crowd dispersed feeling the joy that the dance had given them but still ignorant they were. I continued my dance until the sun peaked over the horizon and I was allowed to return to the land of the dead, my home.
Story of mine, short, I first wrote it several years ago but i come back to it frequently.
“Hush...if you’re real quiet you can make out the words in the wind,” I said to myself. The blue waves rolled over on themselves softly and quietly. The deep blue sky shone from thousands of glittering lights and the large full moon cast velvety silver on the shore. I spread out my arms beckoning the sea breeze to attack me. “Come to me; come to me,” I cried letting my voice echo into the dark. I could hear footsteps behind me. Voices laughed and hands pointed. I wanted the dead, the sea spray, the souls of the gone. I wanted them, to be one of them again. I was once dead, then cast back into this reality with my memory intact, a horrible position to be in mind you. I remember the storms and how we would play and laugh in the storms. I wanted that again. I wanted them again. And here I find myself beckoning to the wind and waves and spray, beckoning to the dead to play with me again.
I twirled around and ran toward the audience, leaping into the white sand, startling them. They laughed and applauded repeatedly after the initial shock. I stamped my feet and kicked sand in the air. It fell like soft snow, gently falling on my hair and face and all over them and around them. My hands flailed wildly as I dashed in and out of the crowd. “Hush,” I shrieked. The clapping died and they leaned forward ever so slightly. “And you might make out the words in the wind,” I whispered so softly that my voice was like the wind itself. But I would hear the words in the wind. I could hear the dead leaping and dancing along the cliffs and in the water.
I made a giant leap back towards the water throwing up sand with my movements. They clapped louder and more people danced feeling the beat of a distant drum and the now crashing waves. They yelled and screamed words that were not words. Their voices meddled with the wind’s, the sea’s and mine. They leapt and ran and spinned never outdoing me. Soon they lay on the ground dizzy and exhausted but I still moved to the music in my mind. I stopped, turned to the ocean and screamed, “Come to me!” A burst of wind and ocean spray hit me like a fist. I fell back hearing the sighs of the audience. They too had felt the power and the movements of the dead. They stared at me as if I were crazy but I was not. I only searched for spirits and souls of the wandering dead.
The crowd dispersed feeling the joy that the dance had given them but still ignorant they were. I continued my dance until the sun peaked over the horizon and I was allowed to return to the land of the dead, my home.