I want to write. Words and images are flooding my mind again. But nooo. The pressure of the finals is getting to me. I need to pass to graduate, dang it. 

…

…….

She made a ladder that could reach the sun, her dream, her beloved. Each rung, each step proved to be heavy, burdening her lungs till they could no longer hold her breath and, instead, they gave it away so that she may be lighter and sink further into her unfathomable determination. Her hair obscuring her blinded eyes, her palms scorched, her lungs were depleted. Empty, she fell.

Okay, okay. That’s all I’m writing. Sheesh. 

Cats disappeared. Lions spoke. Teacups jumped and trees danced. Words were dipped in a wide multitude of colors, flaying themselves with the waking sun or lavishing their letters with the cloth of stars. She stood in the midst of it all. Surrounded, embraced. She thought nothing of it, of how dwarfs intermingled with humans, of how rivers shared their gossip, of how chess pieces were alive and running.

One night, after years of maddening freedom, she fell asleep deeply wedged in the arms of flowers.

She awoke to drones of a tick-tock clock. It ticked. It tocked. No vanishing cats, no talking lions. Her words were drab, the skies gray. Silence was in place of the embrace she knew.

She fled back into the slumber. 

Sleep, wake. Sleep, wake.

Reality sat by her bed and waited for her return.

If he were to take her hand, she would stay. She would stay, if he were to take her hand. He could ask, a request that she sit next to him and grace him with her smiles and ethereal light. If he spoke, if he bared his longings, she would surely listen. Unlike the clogged ears that eradicated his tongue, unlike the embellished looks that scalded his skin, she would surely listen. And then… and then… and then he would never let go. He’ll keep on holding her hand, never letting go. She would let him, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she let him?

She could sit in the most luxurious armchair positioned perfectly to accommodate the heat from the fireplace but far enough to wear the winter stillness on her shoulders. Fire would accentuate her bright features, those prominent cheekbones, that sharp nose, the eyes of sparrows alit by the waking day. The sun. That was her. The room was dark, too dark for reading or for conversing. Too dark to even sleep. Straddling in neither reality nor dream, the room was dark. Too dark, too dark.

It was perfect.

He sat in the corner, enveloped in a chair, his feet firmly on the grand carpet but his head severed and glued to a book. A lampshade hovered over him, listless and useless, for it could not fend off the dark that had tied the man to his precious, precious chair and book. He was lacking in vitamins and minerals, especially those that he could acquire by walking outside. He was severely lacking in social interaction, especially those that did not involve deceased writers as his partners. But he didn’t mind, didn’t mind at all. Everything he needed, he already had. Books to read. Eyes for reading. Mind to comprehend what he read. All in one room. Whenever he was consumed with the desire to travel, he only had to bring the room with him. It didn’t matter if it was China, Egypt, America, Russia. All he needed. All in one room. All the knowledge.

All he needed. He opened his fist, nail marks embedded in the flesh of his palms. Pale skin, paler than usual, frightened any color to return to him. Cradling the book in his other hand, he looked up for the first time that day. Nothing moved, nor did he. The clock above the fireplace, the shadows draped by the listless lampshade, his chest. Wandering, wandering, purposely lost. He delved back into the sea, a small, vast sea cupped in his hands, of white seared black.

There was a knock, a sigh, a sliver of light. It spilled from the open door at the other end of the room. She stood there, smiling at him, poised like the sun. Everything within the walls shuffled to attention. The clock, the shadows, his chest. They moved. They ticked, they stretched, he breathed. They leaned forward, closer to the light. For her, only for her. The book in his hands shut close.

“Do you need anything at the market?”

He shook his head. No. No, he did not.

“I’ll be back before seven,” she sang and left, taking the light with her.

Slipping further inside his armchair, he let her go. But she would like to be with him, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she like to be with him? Take her, lead her inside. Blinding, she was too blinding. His eyes, accustomed to decades of nothingness, cried. If he were to take her hand, if he were to ask, she would be smothered. In the dark. With him. They could stay inside, have everything they need. All the knowledge. All in one room. All they needed. Together. He would like that. Wouldn’t she like that, too? He’d protect her, keep her safe. He’d give her anything within the four walls of their world. Wouldn’t she be happy with him? With him, wouldn’t she be happy?

He raised his hand and reached out. His fingertips grazed the abyss. His arm disturbed the nothingness. Ripples echoed, spilling onto the wooden planks, seeping in between books, bleeding into his skin. He let his hand drop. The dark quelled then settled back to its usual spot, covering, surrounding, and drowning everything and nothing. Silence whispered. If he would allow his hand to reach for hers, she would understand. She would understand, she would smile. She would, she would. They could be happy together in the small room with the quiet clock, the stagnant shadows, the motionless chests. He’d like that. She’d like that, too, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she like that? She could stay with him, hold him, provide light for him. He with her. Her with him. Together. If he were to tell her everything, wouldn’t she understand? Wouldn’t she understand if he were to tell her everything? If he were to paint her the same shade as him, if he were to hold her hand and never let go, if he were to tell her, “I love you,” wouldn’t she let him? Staying, forever, in the world of four walls. She’ll be just like him.

Nails biting into his palms, his teeth clenched, he stood and tore open the door. Light spilled over his shoes, and he ran back to his chair. He sat. He waited. She would return, she always does. She would smile at him and he would smile back. He would then simply take her hand. That would make her happy. It was all he needed.

He kept the door open. He sighed. For her. Only for her.

(Inspired by… dang it, I don’t remember)

Twisting and turning. Blue was banished from the sky, and the world in its entirety was void of color. It made no difference to him, though. His shoulder was shoved back, his right foot crushed to the dripping, drab pavement. All the while, he could hear it. Steady. Frenzied. A whisper. A scream. He clutched at his shirt, just over his numbing heart, and he murmured not to himself but to the rhythmic, placid delirium. His word, a forming wisp of a plea, seeped from his parted lips, the sound thin and hollow enough to tumble out without distortion. 

“Wait.”

His whisper, albeit unscathed, was overwhelmed by his ragged breaths that were sharpened with each step he took. The word fell to the floor without retaliation, and it was immediately stomped to the crevices of the cement, never to be heard or seen. An arm slamming against his, he stumbled a few steps back. He flinched, his shoulders rolling forward as he doubled over. Body after body crashed onto him, but he stayed. Body after body surged forth, but he stood there, drowning. A colorless sea of eyes stabbed him from every angle, leaving their marks scorched and embedded in his skin. The bodies, faceless except for their dull eyes, kept walking either past him or through him. They never stopped. They kept on, all walking the opposite direction compared to his.

The observation throbbing in his temples, he gasped for fresh air, muttered another silenced plea, and resumed his hopeless trek. Bodies pushed him back. Eyes pinned him down. And he could still hear it. The steady, unchanging, eternal beat. It engulfed all sounds, enshrouding them with its own horrifyingly serene song. 

A lullaby ensconced a countdown.

Seconds were veiled by minutes just as minutes were embellished by hours. Hours were adorned by days, days stitched into weeks, weeks painted into months, months illuminated into years. By then, it was beautiful. Alluring, forgiving, infinite. 

It was terrible.

Ruthless with a deluge of malice, pulsating tendrils wrapped the bodies’ necks, pulling them closer, faster and faster. There was no pause, no hesitation. While the bodies didn’t resist, they didn’t rush. He, however, resisted and rushed with the terror of being caught slicing through the crowd. It was contradictory to panic as he was doing. He was aware of it but still didn’t stop. Breaths came in short gasps, his legs shrieked, and his heart galloped. A whisper was impossible. Just then, he could feel it. It kissed the back of his neck as a finger fluttered over his eyes. He was caught. It was inevitable.

He fell, his breath locked away, a thought shattering.  

Time was relentless, and it told him to wake up.

Once upon a time, for three days and three nights, the woodcarver worked. Chipping here, planing there, all the while the woodcarver’s lips moved rapidly. Aspirations, expectations, instructions were a waterfall of honey-sweet sharp words. With a rapid current, they poured out of the woodcarver’s mouth; they drenched the woodcarver’s shirt, marked the wooden floor, and rained on the wooden project. After the three days and three nights, at last, at last the puppet was done. Although still filled with wood shavings and still unpolished, the puppet beamed with glee at the woodcarver. Its parent, its creator. Its God.

The stream of wishes never stopping, the woodcarver attached strings to the elated puppet. The arms, the legs, the head. Not one movement, not one flinch would be overlooked. The woodcarver helped the puppet up to its feet and released it. The first command: dance for your creator, puppet. And so the puppet, a smile drawn crudely on its face, bent its limbs and with the grace of a seasoned performer, it danced. It twisted, it jumped, it sprung up on the wooden tables, it swiveled near the wooden shelves. The next wish: sing for your creator, puppet. And how it sang. Like the caged bird seen in many households, the puppet soared with its voice.

A wonderful sight. The woodcarver clapped his hands in utter bliss.

A happily ever after would have sufficed but not for the wooden puppet. On the seventh day of his fate, the strings twisted and jumped and sprung and swiveled until a mesh of tangled string came tumbling down onto the puppet’s head. Then, no more. The puppet stood, slumped shoulders and face cast downward. The puppet stood, lifeless.

A pitiful sight. The woodcarver clapped his hands in utter disappointment.

Once upon a time, for three days and three nights, the woodcarver worked. The same procedure, the same waterfall. In his zealousness, a new puppet more wondrous than the last emerged from under his calloused hands. But, this time, there were no strings for instead a small machine was placed inside and it pulsed like a heart that not one movement, not one flinch would emerge from its own will. Polished and clothed, the puppet beamed with glee at the woodcarver. Its parent, its creator. Its God.

Dance and sing for your creator, puppet. And so it did. Seven days, seven months, seven years passed though it still danced and sang for the woodcarver. The entire time, the old wooden puppet with the ball of strings on its head sat in a corner, housing dust then mice then termites. No one paid attention to it for all eyes were drawn at the functioning puppet that made everyone that came happy. Forever and forever, the crudely drawn smile stayed on the dancing and singing puppet. Forever and forever, the crudely drawn smile stayed on the decaying puppet.

A wonderful sight, a pitiful sight. And they all lived happily ever after.

(Inspired by Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio)

Wings emerged from deep maroon. Streaks of black bled from each futile flutter. The pages beat against the impregnable force of gravity: the only and final struggle to come back to her. But the words proved to be too heavy for it to sustain. The journal fell three stories, onto the jagged concrete sidewalk, stabbed mercilessly by the rain, watched indifferently by its owner.

The woman peered down from her bedroom window. The coarse red cover glistened with water droplets as it peered right back at her. They held each other’s gaze for a while. One was lifeless, the other was questioning. The woman held out a pristine, black, leather notebook in response. A subtle and innocent enough act. Yet, to both the tainted journal with its rugged corners and the woman of blemished skin and sunken eyes, it was a deafening declaration: “I want to start over.”

She cradled the black journal. In her possession was a priceless opportunity sought by many. Blank pages overflowing with endless possibilities; a new life. She can now obliterate the pain and sorrow, the anger and disappointment, the irrefutable regrets. She can dump all those away and fill in the void with wondrous memories stemmed from right decisions and genuine emotions.

The woman immersed herself in this reverie. It was at this susceptible state did the abandoned journal crept into her consciousness and planted itself firmly in front of her. It fed her curiosity with what-ifs until it grew beyond her control. With a sharp cry of disdain, she succumbed to the journal’s pleas and looked back outside.

A little girl was kneeling and in her hands was the maroon notebook. The quiet afternoon was suddenly pushed back by the thunderous beats of the woman’s heart. The sight was revolting, horrifying. Fear of judgment and disgust tightened around her neck. She tried to calm down, reprimanding herself that the journal was no longer hers. She has a new one. A new life. The old can be discarded and forgotten. She shouldn’t care.

The stubby fingers pried their way in between of the pages and tore open the woman’s soul. The woman tried to push herself away from the window but the intruding fingers imprisoned her. All she could do was cry out.

“Stop.”

The girl faced up and a question reached her.

“Is this yours?”

It was the key. The woman was released and she flung herself down the stairs and into the drizzling rain. Gasping for air, blinking away tears, she stood before the little girl. With no hesitation the girl held out the journal and, mechanically, the woman took it. She caught sight of the smooth palm before petite fingers closed over it. Immediately she was reminded of the leather notebook still in her other hand. She presented it to the girl.

“Take it. Write down anything, everything, and nothing. Then, one day you’ll regret it.”

The girl scrunched her nose.

“What’s the point then?”

The woman hugged the red journal. It soiled her clothes and the cold penetrated through her but she didn’t mind.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “It’s just how it is.”

They positioned a two-cornered hat over her head. The girl winced as the rough paper scraped against her tender forehead. They hung a cloak over her shoulders. She doubled over from the sheer weight of the stiff fabric. The girl was then pushed towards a mirror. Across from her, staring back, disconcerted, mouth agape, was someone else. A minuscule girl. The poorly made hat dipped over her eyes; the cape covered her entire figure. She was buried.

“There. You’re ready.”

For what? The girl wanted to know. But, without another word, they dragged her away and led her outside. The rain sliced her face. The squall thrashed her clothes. She bit her tongue from screaming, from admitting defeat. No one was going to listen anyway. She was pulled and pushed until they reached the docks. There, a boat as petite as her was waiting for them.

The girl was lifted and placed behind the wheel.

“Remember,” they said. “You can always come back home.”

They untied the rope and the boat was instantly swallowed by the storm. The girl clamped her tiny hands on the wheel. This way and that, the boat swayed. At each shake, more water plunged into the boat. Waves rose and rose, charging towards her with unrelenting passion. They clawed and hissed and burned. Her grip weakened, her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor.

Like a mother who realized she has went too far, sunlight cleaved the clouds and the storm abated. The sky cleared, the waters calmed. The girl rolled onto to her back. She basked in the warmth, absorbing everything that was bright and blue. Down below, the gentle waves lulled her to sleep. And the girl’s first adventure ended.

The girl grew and grew. The paper hat became snug. The cloak was befitting. The girl continued on to many more feats, prevailing over countless perils, overthrowing many obstacles. She experienced and learned. She saw, she heard, she smelled, she felt. Earnestly, overflowing with greed and curiosity, the girl took in everything the world has to offer. She lusted for it, unable to appease the bellowing desire for knowledge.

She rotted away. The little girl was gone—melted away by the sun, smothered by the waters, sacrificed in order to live. But the grown girl did not noticed. Or, perhaps, she refused to acknowledge. She kept her eyes forward, her calloused hands on the wheel, scouring for the next adventure.

Then, a voice. It whispered to the girl of things from her previous life. The voice begged for her to listen, to come back. Such a minuscule and petite sound. It was never heard. It was swallowed and silenced by the unknown that the girl was constantly battling.

And so the girl, with her paper hat and shattered cape and weathered boat, drifted. Drifting, drifting, drifting, drif—

A crunch every step. Dust at every touch. The floor beneath him was a river of black on white, of deceit splattered for all to see. There was no room for perfection. He repositioned the bag over his shoulder and stepped over an open book only to crush a sheet of paper. He moved his foot. A “C” in vibrant red. His English essay. He smashed his heel into it. Raising the other foot, he aimed for the next victim: his Chemistry lab report. He stomped on it. He made his way through his bedroom floor, smashing and crushing everything he could, leaving nothing unscathed.

He kept on marching until he reached his desk. A mountain stared down at him. At the apex, an empty energy bottle sneered at him. Discarded index cards, crumbs of junk food, an array of pencils, pens, and highlighters encompassed the mound, burying the smooth surface of the desk in turmoil. They told him one thing: there was no room to work on. He turned around. A bland odor lingered in the heavy air. His nose wrinkled. It was a mixture of dirty clothes and of opened sweets.

The bedroom was filled. There was no room for anything. There was no room for perfection.

He went back to the mountain. In one swift movement, he grabbed onto one side and shoved the entire pile to the floor. Papers flew, dust hung in the air. His desk was clean once again. But not for long. He dumped his bag on the smooth, oak surface, all contents scattered, engulfing all that was perfect in their chaos. He slumped onto a chair and surveyed his bedroom, his little sanctuary.

Whistling a cheery tune, he fished through the new pile on his desk. His latest Algebra test: “D.” He smirked. He let it flutter down to the floor. Another declaration. The same declaration as the others.

There was no room for perfection.

▶ RPG

Kaye, Paul, here it is. Sorry if it’s too long. No need to read it.

Read More

▶ Go Green

Finally I got this story done. About time too as my last one was written… half a year ago haha I had this idea in my head ever since my conversation about water with one of my friends, randomnessisagift. And that was about a year ago. I thought this would be an easy write, considering it was meant to be short and lighthearted. But it got more elaborated as I thought about it more. I think the only thing worth mentioning here is my first thought of the protagonist: “Dang, what a sadist.” haha really, though, it’s not true… I think.

Anyway what I decided on is a story full of silly, exaggerated, and overly winded descriptions that give—supposedly—the incident meaning. I did not specifically say what the characters are as the flow of the story didn’t allow me; I hope the descriptions explain this much. It’s very different from my last writing which was practically void of any descriptions. Overall, I guess this is okay although I still think the one prior to this, RPG, was more fun to write.

Lastly, I did not mean for this story to take this form but now it’s very much like a “go green” story haha

Beneath It All

I glided through the air, a mere inch above the water. The ocean roared and shrieked in my passing. I sent out wind that stung, that sliced down to the raging waters. A flurry of white waves came to life, swiftly rising up high, consumed with the livid desire to drag me underwater. I flew up, merely avoiding the ocean’s hungry mouth, and in return I blew out a gust of frigid wind. The water retaliated, its waves rising higher and higher, poised to devour me. At the first hand of water crashing towards me, I swiveled and twisted, nimbly dancing my way through the chaos I have started. It was a lethal dance that never failed to call forth the monstrous and wild beauty of nature. 

The ocean’s screeches rose. Shrill and miserable, the screams were carried to the sky. Fury of waves continued to thrash me from below and as if the ocean’s cries for help were answered, droplets of water came from above. I looked up and sure enough it had begun to rain. The dance abruptly came to an end. The winds quieted, the waves still. Another scene was about to take place: the arrival of rain.

From the clouds in the sky, they rained down, hard, into the ocean’s now gentle surface. Poised and svelte, they sliced through the air with grace and they pierced the ocean like needles. Each and every droplet was an answer to the mesmerizing plea of the ocean. They knew that the sorrowful cries of loneliness and pain may only be appeased by them and so they rained right into the welcoming arms of the ocean.

At the mere touch of the water, they screamed in agony. Most immediately rose back into the sky, suffocating in the cruelty, abandoning the wretched ocean. Beneath their shrieks the ocean’s once lovely song morphed into a malicious spell. It continued to call out to them, crooning empty promises. They knew of the cruel fate that was about to befall them and yet they continued to rain down. They couldn’t do anything else for their love for the ocean was too strong.

I weaved in and out to avoid those who fled up, those who surrendered to the unbearable pain. The majority had already dispersed. Only fools would actually stay with the ocean. It didn’t matter though because in the end, they would all leave—battered, abused, insignificant.

There was one that was truly a fool. She had arrived weeks before with a batch of weaklings. All had already fled. All but her. She stayed. Because she had a purpose. It was not to merely answer to the calls of the ocean. She wanted to do more.

I continued dancing through the rain with only her in mind. It was always like that. In the midst of chaos, I could always find her. It was easy for I knew she would always be there.

She would rise from beneath the ocean’s depth. Simply floating there, invisible to the rest of the world, she would stay still, not seeming to mind the agonizing screams of her fellow people. Her entire being will move with the ocean, her voice melting into the spellbinding song. And once more I would be pulled in. The air about me will warm, the chafing wind in me will cease.

Filled with sudden giddiness, I hurried my search. It was then that a hand broke through the ocean’s surface. The ocean did not shatter. No waves, not even ripples. The hand simply slipped from water to air. It rose fluidly, full of grace. Water droplets tenderly rolled down the long fingers. The slender arm glinted in the sun.

And there she was.

Once again, I was reminded of it. Everyday, upon looking at her, I was reminded. A natural beauty. That was her.

I dove down to her. Just as the ocean called for rain, her presence lured me in. Compared to her, the endless blue before me was bleak, the suffocating sweetness of the ocean’s croons were nothing more but whispers. To me, she is the ocean.

She looked up at me and smiled, a calming sort of greeting. In that instant the harsh wind in me fully depleted, gone and nonexistent, as if it was never there to start with.

The rain had already stopped by then; the sky, peaceful and bright. Struck by sunlight—for even the emerging sun adored her—her entire being was embraced in a warm glow. It was at that time that I noticed an odd presence on her left wrist. Like the ocean, like her, it glistened in the sun and yet at the same time, it was different. The gleam surrounding the unknown item was unnatural, almost ominous, its light pulsating as if it was alive.

Even back then I knew I shouldn’t do anything. I was aware that I was not in the right position to do so. Wind and water do not mix. What she decides to do has nothing to do with me. I knew all this and yet I still lunged towards her wrist for a closer view. Back then, I didn’t know what was so anomalous about the atmosphere. All I was sure of is that the air around us practically chilled—and I was certain it was not my doing.

I squinted against its spiteful glint but it didn’t take long for me to surrender and avert my eyes from it, the smoldering light already too much to bear. Still powerless against the harsh light, I blindly reached out to it. As I got closer, I could feel the malicious atmosphere increasing, surging, expanding across the boundless ocean surface. For once, despite my nature, I felt excruciatingly cold. The sun that once bathed us in its light was long forgotten and surmounted.

Before I could get to it, she immediately yanked her arm beneath the waters. Its menacing glare dulled by the ocean, I could clearly see what it was. I grimaced. The air around me shook itself to life. The wind snaked about me, intrigued by my sudden calling.

A bottle. Its glass neck struck through her wrist.

A bottle. A gift from the loving ocean.

Attached to her. Wedged into her. Forever with her.

The wind whistled as I shot across the short distance between me and that horrid bottle. I reached out to it. The water shrieked at my frigid touch and with sharp knives formed, they cut through my arm. Waves came to being, pummeling me with their heavy palms, clearly taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to finally rid of me. Despite it all, I did not care, did not notice. All I saw was that bottle that had no place in the ocean and certainly not with her.

It was only when her arm began to loose its form did I find reason once more. I quickly withdrew and stared helplessly at her. She smiled at me and shook her head. Her hair blanketed the revolting bottle, shielding it from view. She raised a finger to her lips: a plea for silence. Then, she delved in deeper beneath the ocean: a promise to stay.

I let out a breath of frustration. That was the end of it. I couldn’t do anything else. And I would have left it at that. I really would have if weren’t for my distance. Having been rejected back to my territory, I could easily see her entire figure. The stark contrast of the oil stain against her overwhelming dress was what caught my attention first. A mesh of ropes and fish nets interweaved in her wild web of hair, twisting their way around the rest of her body. Beneath the soft glow about her, there was another presence, the same vibe the bottle secreted. I scrunched my eyes to get a better look and I realized they were degraded fragments of plastic scattered across her body. Similar to the bottle in her left wrist, the pieces emitted an eerie glow.

I stared, aghast, at the state she was in. My mind went blank once more. The wind picked up, reviving the waves. A thunderous howl broke through my chest and I charged towards her. She no longer looked like herself. With those foreign objects crammed against her, she was one with the ocean itself. My ocean. She was no more. Tainted, ridiculed, abused, she was no longer mine. She was theirocean now.

Wind and water clashing, intertwining, dancing, in the midst of it all, I made another attempt at seizing the garbage. Just as when I grabbed hold of the rope around her waist, she surged at me. The once serene face became wicked. She snarled filled with vile and loathing. She trashed against my hold while she writhed herself free. I held on tighter and I bent down to pluck the fragments of plastic from her dress. She lashed out her arms, flailing them in my face. I quickened my pace as I noticed the jagged wind slashing her limbs. I did not want to hurt her. I wanted to save her. To bring her back.

She shrieked. That single note hung in the air, ringing in my ears. There was no longer any animosity. Instead, it rung with desperation, as though she was pleading.

At the last piece of trash wrenched from her, I finally loosened my grip. The wind died down and so did the ocean. She laid there in the midst of trash. Compared to the chaos just moments before, the silence that followed was deafening. Hovering over her, I could hear her weak and rugged breathing. Slowly, she stretched out her arm and grasped hold of a piece of plastic floating near her. Bit by bit, the other particles followed, just as painstakingly as she had done. Everything that I took away from her, she called them back with loving embrace.

That was when I lost it. I snatched her from that horrible ocean and held her in my arms. I could already feel the wind in me chafing her bare skin, snipping away her abundant hair, tattering her dress but I didn’t care. I just didn’t want my ocean to become tainted. And so, together, we shot up to the open sky.

We traveled higher and higher, faster and faster. The destination was of no importance. I just wanted to take her away. No more pain, no more sacrifices. I only stopped at the boundary of my people’s territory. There, away from theirocean, I let my ocean free.

She floated away from me like wisp. Released from the cutting wind, she seemed like a completely different being. Her dress no longer trailed after her as their frayed hems barely hid her thighs. There was nothing to hide anyway for even her legs had mostly evaporated. The waterfall of hair was merely a small pool, not evening reaching the nape of her neck. Her right arm was entirely gone and only three of her slender fingers remained on the other hand. She was no longer whole, no longer herself.

She pushed herself to me. Eye to eye, she just stared at me. I expected anger, screams, blame. She did nothing but stare. Then she smiled.

I looked away in shame. I should have felt disgust, malice, pity, anything befitting the scene before me but there was none of those. Enamored, that’s how I felt. How charming she looked. In spite of everything that happened, she was still beautiful.

Down below, I saw the empty ocean. It was so forlorn and dark. I knew then what I had to do.

I stretched out my hand to her.

She looked at it amusingly, her grin widening each second. She placed her hand a few inches over mine and slowly our fingertips touched.

In that instant, she was gone. Evaporated. I was alone.

I stayed there for a while, numb and detached. My ocean.  Gone. I wanted her back and yet at the same time, I was glad she was gone. I glanced down at the ocean, as though it was out of instinct, as if I would see her floating on the surface. Instead I saw the trash aimlessly bobbing around. They were just like the ocean: lost and lonely. Immediately my purpose was redefined.

I flew back to the ocean’s surface. This time, I did not succumb to mayhem. I positioned myself facing the shore and I blew out a gust of wind. Beneath, the ocean stirred itself. The fragments and ropes sprung up and moved towards shore, the soft waves lapping against them. I kept on propelling them to land. No longer against one another, the water assisted me along the way.

Surveying the ocean more closely than before, I could clearly see the lives underwater. Lively and colorful, creatures of all kind nimbly swam along, seemingly oblivious to all the turmoil from earlier. They were, as she was, magnificent. The giddiness came back and I felt rejuvenated.

As though she was still with us, the sharp wind in me no longer yearned to strike the ocean. My only concern was to get the trash off the water for if I did it right, there would be no doubt that she would return. Upon her next arrival, her stay would be longer. Trash will be nonexistent and she would be free to float around for as long as she wants. Perhaps then I would not mind her being with the dear ocean.

I would then point out to her. I would tell the world, “See her? That is Nature’s work at best. A natural beauty. That’s her.”

Then I would proudly continue and exclaim, “She is the ocean.”