Beached Repressions

March 1, 2010
By ally03 BRONZE, Scottsdale, Arizona
ally03 BRONZE, Scottsdale, Arizona
3 articles 0 photos 7 comments

If you find this and are reading it, I am probably already gone.

I never used to come by here. I've always seen it from a far distance, but have never had enough agitation to come and stay. Now, it seems as if it's the only place to go, the only place that seems shielded and reassuring. Everything about it is mellowing, the texture of the jagged rocks that I touch to my fingers to and the cool breeze that forces itself onto my bare neck.

This is the only comforting place to go to right now. Red tide season is here, which only adds to the eeriness. You could say that I’ve always been an eerie person. The water looks like a never-ending hole, colored a dark rich green, but splashed with a red coloring that looks to be scratching away at all the sea life. Off in the distance, I see two men fishing from the shore. The right thing to do would be to warn them about the red tide and how it can be deadly, but then again when have I ever chosen to do the right thing.

Sometimes, I wander off to one of the tide pools and examine the remarkable wonders that the earth has bestowed upon us. The earth has given us so much and us given so little in return. As I write, I glance in on one of these pools only to see the true magnificence of nature. A sand dollar looks up at me and begs for attention. Then it shudders as if it’s reluctant to know me. Sand dollars have always been my favorite sight in a tide pool, the way they clutch onto the sand like they have never wanted anything more in their diminutive, yet complex lives. It seems as though the sand dollar is in pain as I try to pick it up; it wants nothing to do with me, wants to be left in solitary guilt. As I pick it up, the sand still inhabits the creature and there is no way I'm earning it without a fight.

The tide and the wind have dramatically picked up, now. The waves collide harshly with the shore and I must relocate to the southern edge of the beach. The lesser waves sound like puny screeches fighting for air, but the monster waves sound like enormous screams of prideful agitation. Suddenly this place doesn't seem so peaceful. Waves have a tendency to do that. At first, their presence is delightful, but as soon as they turn into monsters, I want to widen out proximity. Violent for no particular reason, waves give off a satanic sense of power that can suppress just about anyone.

With increasing wind speeds, the weather now seems impenetrable. This isn’t your ordinary afternoon storm; I'm discussing the kind that makes one feel as if their life is in jeopardy. I want to leave now. This environment is no longer relaxing and no longer worth staying in. Everything changes briskly, nothing ever remains the same, or even similar for long.

The act of helping others is a burdensome one. It is an art, more arduous than any other form. Demands are different and facts are distorted. All I ask is that you don’t condemn me; I am truly a dignified person. I think I'll be going now.

The author's comments:
"Beneath the surface" writing is an art unto itself. This is my meager attempt at telling a desperate story through unspoken language.

Similar Articles


This article has 1 comment.

on Mar. 6 2010 at 6:39 pm
Rae_Flies_with_Byrds GOLD, Avondale, Arizona
10 articles 0 photos 16 comments

Favorite Quote:
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
-Edgar Allan Poe

It's interesting. I hardly see anyone write like this. It was refreshing to read.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!