My extrapolation upon works of Hemingway and prose poetry of H.P. Lovecraft.
|"As I Sit by the Sea"(Rough draft)-by Danny Wayne Evans
As the old man sat by the sea, he felt his mind and thoughts drift in and out, as if on the tides of night, to days that had happened oh, so long ago. He loved sitting here on his porch, with only his smokes and drink to keep him company. As he would watch the tide come rolling in for the night, he loved to watch the water, a neverending delight to him; as,with each splashing pass, it would come creeping ever closer to the porch, yet never ever coming quite close enough. The old man would watch, as the tide rolled it's endless song back into the ocean, as if to greet the next, oncoming wave. He watched as the sand would glisten in the pale moon's glow, as it's top skin sucked it's way back into the sea.
The old man supposed that, eventually, with time's strange eons, all things returned back to the sea; but he had never seen the water ever creep closer to what he called "the mark"; except when hurricane season would set in; then he would just merely batten down the hatches, wait out the storm's fine and wild fury until it finally abated, and then, next morning, go out to see what the ocean had given back to the lands of men.
One time, he had found a long string of green sea kelp, strung attached to the eaves in the roof of the porch. He remembered clearly that the storm that night had been relentless in it's fury, shivering the timbers and beams of his home.
Another time, he had found an ancient mast from some long ago, forgotten ship that had must have sunk far off in the past; cast up on the dunes very near his house, as if the sea had paid pale tribute, yet cried pardon for the souls of men she had claimed; yet still too proud to say but with a sea's silent cry; forgiveness for the taking of the children of the earth, but their temerity brought them thus.
Yet, another time, he had gone out and the sun's first light, and found that the porch had been covered with a high layer of sand. It had taken him and hour and a half to finally clear the porch, but in the last patch of sand he cleaned away, he found with glee a single gold doubloon, no more, yet no less. He had it then strung on the finest gold filigree chain he could find; his own personal "pearl of great worth", as it was; which he supposed he would wear until his dying day; which he would then bequeath to his son, in remembrance of him.
Sometimes, much like tonight, he would just merely sit on his porch, and listen to the hush-hush of the surf, as the waves gently slap onto his beach. He would watch as the daylight's last glimmer faded off into that foamy, faraway horizon; as if the sun was crossing some strange nether regions of space on a bridge made of starbeams of night;to shine once again in the lands of faery; where silvan bells would peal forth, and the songs of forgotten gods and kings would sing forth their praises of their dawn; strange, unknown, unheard enchanted music; only to be heard by men and women with aching hearts that strived for something more than this life, and died with the music still on their lips;sung only to others in dreams.
Today, he remembered he had come out somewhat earlier than usual, pleasantly melancholy, (and a slightly bit drunk), just in time to see the wind wash afar off the last remnants of a summertime drizzle just a few miles off from his house, the water eventually returning back to the sea. He could actually see where the path of the wind took the rain, like some strange aurorae borialis of the waves; it was like at times, the sky bent to kiss the sea.
As he watched and listened, here in his own private night, the stars smiled and whispered and twinkled down from the heavens; forgotten photographs of light years away. He found himself amazed, like a small eight year old boy, to think that the first drop of water to have ever fell from heaven was still out there somewhere, maybe mingling in the depths of the sea, maybe playing gently in the lap of the reef, maybe even up there kissing the sky back in some high, far-flunged cloud, or maybe it could be somewheres in the tears that slowly tricked down his cheek; as he closed his eyes,
He was still smiling, when the boy who usually walked the beach in the morning found him.
"It was just so strange." said the investigating detective to his wife later that night. "That old man must had died sometimes during the night, but the smile he had on his face made him look just like an eight year old boy.""There, there", his wife cooed to him, as she tucked and snuggled to covers close to his face for him.
"That must be what it's like to die in peace...", the detective mummered, right before sleep took his mind away; leaving his body there, all alone, though his wife lay close by his side.
As he slept, far off into the night, a single tear trickled down his face, like the first drop of water to ever touch dry land.
Afar off the beach where the old man had lived and died, on a outcrop spar of land, a lonely lighthouse touched it's beams on the the bellysides of the clouds above, which raced inward from the sea to once again kiss the land. The lightbeams struggled mightily to convey a most important message to the skies above; yet strove more to remember the message it once had to convey...