sam said 87/100
The dusty shore looked the same. The small shops, the bustle of people, the smell of salt and grime. It looked the same, they all looked the same, they all smelled the same. I’ve sailed to ports farther then you could dream of, each one is the same, each one fights a losing battle against the sea. The waves batter the coast, dragging the town and the people back to the ocean bit by bit. They’re all the same, except for one.
The dock creaked as I pressed my boot against it, I slowly strode toward the office to secure our pass. Small children began to swarm me trying to sell me local wares I stopped; carefully wrapped my hand around the hilt of the sword at my waist. My eyes were closed, but I could hear the scamper of footsteps as the peddlers moved away. When I opened them again, I thought I saw her, walking along the far end of the dock. I thought I did, but I knew it wasn’t her; Because she was dead. I gave the marina office a few dinars, enough to keep the thieves off our ship, and used the rest to buy lodging for the crew. The village was quaint and quiet, some eastern country, I couldn’t even remember where we were any more. As the moon began to rise, I stood alone on the shore.
The cool night air brought a high and thick mist up the bottom of the sea. It was the type of mist that doesn’t sink a ship, it just swallows it whole. Ship, cargo, crew, everything… gone. I waded out a few meters into the water, I was waiting for the mists to take me. I wish they had, but I was alive, and she wasn’t. I could see her face, forming on the soft clouds of fog just as smooth as her skin, illuminated by the moon. The shadows made the curves and her body took shape. But she was dead, and I wasn’t. In a strange way though, I thought as I stood knee deep in the cold midnight waters, it was like she followed me, as if, this was how it supposed to be. Maybe nothing was wrong, maybe nothing even happened, maybe she was dead before that night we met. Her eyes pierced the deep mists and she told me, she said “Don’t worry, don’t cry, because nothing is wrong.” I waded back to the shore. I didn’t like this village, we were shipping out at dawn.
Memories are funny. They have a certain nostalgic quality to them, the make you sorry, they make you miss the past. Memories also allow you to change the past, you alter the events, the words spoken, you alter the memory itself ever so slightly, and then you have something new altogether. Once something happens, you have the rest of your life to sift through it in your head. Slowly letting the grains of truth slip through, and replacing them with half-truths, or sometimes outright lies. I didn’t even know her, that is the truth. We had spent a handful of nights together in a backwater city, a hundred miles away from where ever people are supposed to be. Over the years my memories have grown fonder, although vague, I’ve convinced myself we had this strange connection. I didn’t tell her romantic words, but she knew. I wasn’t afforded the luxury of a lifetime to spend with her, but in those nights a lifetime was shared. Memories can preserve the past, they can change it too, but on that night, no matter how long it has been, no matter how much I try to forget or to change it, I’ll always she her face, her last gurgle of air, her beautiful face, the way her skin felt soft even as her hand slipped from mine. The way her hair danced under the waters and how the moon lit her eyes up. I shipped out at dawn that morning. I untied the ropes myself, pressed my foot against the pier and pushed. I pushed away from the small sea-side town, I pushed away from guilt, from my pain, from an inevitable fact that I have yet to face, I pushed away from the village that morning, and I pushed away from myself. No matter how many times I would push away, heel of my foot on the pier, rope in my hand; I could never leave her. I took her with me on that rosy dawn, and no matter how many villages I leave, she will always be with me.
The dock creaked as I pressed my boot against it, I slowly strode toward the office to secure our pass. Small children began to swarm me trying to sell me local wares I stopped; carefully wrapped my hand around the hilt of the sword at my waist. My eyes were closed, but I could hear the scamper of footsteps as the peddlers moved away. When I opened them again, I thought I saw her, walking along the far end of the dock. I thought I did, but I knew it wasn’t her; Because she was dead. I gave the marina office a few dinars, enough to keep the thieves off our ship, and used the rest to buy lodging for the crew. The village was quaint and quiet, some eastern country, I couldn’t even remember where we were any more. As the moon began to rise, I stood alone on the shore.
The cool night air brought a high and thick mist up the bottom of the sea. It was the type of mist that doesn’t sink a ship, it just swallows it whole. Ship, cargo, crew, everything… gone. I waded out a few meters into the water, I was waiting for the mists to take me. I wish they had, but I was alive, and she wasn’t. I could see her face, forming on the soft clouds of fog just as smooth as her skin, illuminated by the moon. The shadows made the curves and her body took shape. But she was dead, and I wasn’t. In a strange way though, I thought as I stood knee deep in the cold midnight waters, it was like she followed me, as if, this was how it supposed to be. Maybe nothing was wrong, maybe nothing even happened, maybe she was dead before that night we met. Her eyes pierced the deep mists and she told me, she said “Don’t worry, don’t cry, because nothing is wrong.” I waded back to the shore. I didn’t like this village, we were shipping out at dawn.
Memories are funny. They have a certain nostalgic quality to them, the make you sorry, they make you miss the past. Memories also allow you to change the past, you alter the events, the words spoken, you alter the memory itself ever so slightly, and then you have something new altogether. Once something happens, you have the rest of your life to sift through it in your head. Slowly letting the grains of truth slip through, and replacing them with half-truths, or sometimes outright lies. I didn’t even know her, that is the truth. We had spent a handful of nights together in a backwater city, a hundred miles away from where ever people are supposed to be. Over the years my memories have grown fonder, although vague, I’ve convinced myself we had this strange connection. I didn’t tell her romantic words, but she knew. I wasn’t afforded the luxury of a lifetime to spend with her, but in those nights a lifetime was shared. Memories can preserve the past, they can change it too, but on that night, no matter how long it has been, no matter how much I try to forget or to change it, I’ll always she her face, her last gurgle of air, her beautiful face, the way her skin felt soft even as her hand slipped from mine. The way her hair danced under the waters and how the moon lit her eyes up. I shipped out at dawn that morning. I untied the ropes myself, pressed my foot against the pier and pushed. I pushed away from the small sea-side town, I pushed away from guilt, from my pain, from an inevitable fact that I have yet to face, I pushed away from the village that morning, and I pushed away from myself. No matter how many times I would push away, heel of my foot on the pier, rope in my hand; I could never leave her. I took her with me on that rosy dawn, and no matter how many villages I leave, she will always be with me.