~Sand Angels~ (Charade/Wess)

[k!ah]

The sand I lay on was cool against my bare arms, as I slide it across the silk like grains of sand. Sand ran through the gaps in my fingers, my fingers forming little ridges of sand. Little grains plant themselves uncomfortable under my nails. But I don’t’ bother to remove them. I let them find a new home under the nails of my fingers, letting them dig further and further until they could move no more. My legs move in a similar way to my arms, they open then they close, manoeuvring the sand so that it began to gather around the edge of my legs when they were spread wide. A small smile slips into my lips as I wave my arms and legs about, enjoying the feel of the little grains of sand against my skin.

My eyes look up into the sky. Little stars blink on and off, observing me as I flail around on the ground. What is that crazy boy doing? They seemed to ask, studying my movements, in a similar way to the way that I studied there’s. The darkness that surrounded the small blinking lights, threatened to swallow them whole, but they fort the darkness growing large then small, the darkness and light in a dead heat. My eyes slide across the sky until they come to a halt on the moon. It was a small crescent in the night sky, a shape that made me think of a banana. The smile on my face grows larger as I imagine a banana in the spot of the moon, its yellow skin glowing ever so slightly pooling me in a bath of yellow light.

The sound harsh sound of waves braking across the shore filled my ears. The ocean was always very unpredictable. Sometime it was as calm as the eye of a hurricane, other times it was harsher that the brewing of a storm. Tonight it was in the middle, the waves crashing against the shore, only to be dragged out again in a rushing heap of surging blue liquid. Then the process was repeated.

My arms and legs were still moving obediently through the sand as my mind was brought back to the task on hand. Satisfied that I had flailed around for long enough, I bring my legs together, my arms coming to a halt at my sides. The heat of my body flowed into my arms as I lay there, at a complete standstill. I felt the heat come off me in waves as I lay their completely still; the only movement was of my heart as it pounded slightly faster than normal in my rib cage. I let my eyes flutter closed, memorizing the feel of the sand against my body, bending and moving to fit around me and my body, I memorise the pounding of my heart, and the heat that spreads through my arms. It was so perfect. Perfect, just like art should be.

With that thought I haul myself delicately to my feet, careful not to move any of the sand that had surrounded me only moments ago. I take a step away from the place where I had been lying, sand that was still clinging to my clothes falling away as I dusted my delicate hands over my clothing determined to remove any of the sand that still clutched at my shirt and pants. Satisfied that I was sand free, I turn around, my feet sinking further into the cool sand, until my toes were fully covered. I eye the ground where I had been lying and an image forms before me.

Delicate wings of an angle flower out around the side of the figure that made the angels body. An elegant skirt flowed around the angel’s feet, elegant and proud. My eyes glide over the head of the angel, (An indent in the sand) and a brilliant idea flies into my mind. Walking around to the top of the angel I bend down my finger gliding through the sand, forming a halo around the angels head. Standing back I observe my piece of art work with pride. I watch as the sand that forms her delicate body leads to the elegant curve of her neck, to the soft, but amazingly stunning, sweep of her feathered wings.

I stand with my hands on my hips, my eyes glued to the angel in front of me. Did you fall from heaven? I ask it, because you are just perfect. After another moment, I find myself sliding to the ground, where I bring my knees to my chest, wrapping my long muscled arms around them, hugging them close. I rest my chin on my knees, my eyes never leaving the angel, my artwork, that lays in front of me, a small smile plastered too my face.

[charade]

Leonard Terrapin

Grains of sand.

There are trillions of them on the beach; innumerable fragments of what once was mighty rock or intricate shell. The shells themselves once home to creatures too small to grasp the vastness of the ocean. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps they knew that each droplet of water they lived in was as uncountable as the grains of sand beneath my feet. The day has come to an end and the stars in the sky seek to match the shore, tiny pinpricks of light reflected in the soft roll of the waves. The air is cool to the touch, for the water breathes moisture into the atmosphere, filling my lungs with its familiar tang; the scent of a world so close and yet so different.

I am always drawn to the sea at night, or rather where the liquid meets solid ground. I don't go swimming, but the peaceful solidarity of the beach in these hours is something to savor. My Grandfather says that it is only when a man is alone that he sees himself for what he is, not hidden behind layers of social stigmata or masks of insincerity. Here I can simply be, and enjoy that very fact. It is here, in the stillness that I can train unseen by prying eyes and let my fighting style become me. By the borrowed light of the moon and the illumination of the stars, I firmly plant my feet and ready my stance. I stand with my knees slightly bent, one foot pointed towards the ocean and the other to my right.

My left arm is held close to my side, fingers curled upwards in a fist. The other is held aloft, palm up and out to the waves as the dance begins. I let out a loud grunt and swiftly step forward, my arms changing places as I do so. Another moment and the outstretched hand smacks on top of the one by my side, before I bring them both up in a double blocking motion. The movement is followed by a punch to what would be a solar plexus, then a groin, then a chopping motion to the side of a neck. It is meant to disarm an enemy before causing them to crumple to the ground. I would take no pleasure in their defeat, acknowledging them for their strengths, not praising my own skills.

I run through the pattern again, and then again, substituting the two punches for front facing kicks instead, and the chop for a roundhouse. The last move faces me to the side instead of the water, and I continue going through the form, even as it takes me down the waterfront, leaving footprints along the shoreline. A warrior must be fast. Strength counts for nothing if a wound renders your arms or legs inoperable. But speed? An enemy cannot harm what they cannot touch. Cannot fight what they cannot see. Grandfather has trained me in the use of blades, and for that I am thankful; but every weapon contains a flaw, for the weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it.

My siblings do not take our training as seriously as I do, but that is to be expected. I am the oldest and as such, responsibility falls to me. They do not comprehend the full scale of our family's honor, though I hope that one day they understand. My path takes my past shifting sands and the occasional wave that laps at my ankles, but it does nothing but further soothe and clear my mind. That is, until a form that is neither sand nor water enters my field of vision. I am genuinely surprised; it is not often that I come across another person in the dead of the night. A kindred spirit? Or the bitter mote of a lost soul? I pause in my attacks and follow his gaze. In the ground in front of me there is a image. It is clearly a winged form, that of an angel. The boy sits in a tight ball, unmoving, blind to the greater world around him.

"It's a bit dark for artwork is it not?"

The words leave my lips before scarcely being formed. It is an observation, not a criticism, though my intentions have been misinterpreted before. I find it strange that someone would be out here drawing in the sand, and he must have drawn it because this is not a naturally occurring phenomenon and there is no one else around, or so I think, at least until the I hear the sound of a tread move a pile of sand off to my left. I do believe that I and the ball may not be the only ones seeking refuge along the sandy shores of the ocean. But who this other is, remains to be seen."Who goes there?" I say to the still of the darkened sky. A reply will be forthcoming. If it is not, then I can only hope my opponent is worthy.

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[Wess]

The sound of the ocean at night was completely different than it was during the daytime. There weren't any gull cries or screeches; the hustle and bustle one heard during the day was practically nonexistent, and more importantly, all one could hear was the strong, yet gentle crash of the waves on the shore.

Two small feet skirted through the shallows of the water, their toes grabbing onto the loose sand at the bottom for some form an anchorage. The sturdy legs that those feet belonged to seemed to be at an obtuse angle to the tide, their lithe muscles pulling against the tide as the figure walked. A contented sigh escaped soft, plush lips as the angle shifted, and a knitted cover-up was discarded onto the dry shore as Marissa's figure slunk into the water, her kinky hair flattening as she submerged into it's depths.

As she paddled through the water, Marissa's eyes narrowed and she dove under a wave, watching it hit the shore and slide to a nearby boy's feet. Well, he wasn't exactly a boy; he was older than her, but he was still of the male gender just the same. He was doing something in the sand; she couldn't make out what exactly, but whatever it was, he seemed calm, like the ocean was tonight. She floated, watching him work with a keen interest as another boy joined him. She ran a hand through her hair, pulling it out of her eyes as she sunk back into the water, eyes-and-up only visible.

She stayed in this position for a while, only surfacing for air as she watched, much like a crocodile would its prey. The interaction was brief, because the newer boy seemed to catch onto the fact that they were being watched. "'Who goes there'. Pffft..." she thought, eyes narrowing back to slits. "If I were a predator, they'd both be dead. Hell, if this were the Hunger Games, they'd both be dead..."

She remained in her position for a good minute or so before the younger teen dove under the water once more, swimming to shore as quietly as possible. Marissa wasn't sure why she was being quiet, perhaps not to disturb the peace anymore than it had already been. As she felt the familiar feeling of sand underneath her, Marissa crouched and slowly eased out of the water, running a hand through her hair once more. Her eyes, despite no longer being half-closed from the water, still possessed that irritable look about them, but there was something else: amusement.

Dragging her hands through the water until she was too far above to do so, Marissa then crossed her arms, staring in the direction of the boy who addressed her.

"Calm your tits; I'm not here to kill you. At least not now," Her hand pulled at her bathing suit strap, adjusting her own. "I'm just out for a midnight swim. If that's okay, Mister Jittery; I mean, I wouldn't want to scare you,"

She crossed her arms, eyes practically brimming with amusement and humor, but something else, something to go with that sarcastic, patronizing tone.

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[k!ah]

Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination. Art, my one passion in this life. I love the way art could be so perfect but so wrong at the same time. Like you may add something extra, something that might reduce the perfection to a piece of work, but does it really? Or does it just make the piece more- more perfect?

Art: The results of one’s attempts to reflect, represent, or interpret some kind of reality through realistic or non-realistic means. The way a person looks at life, shapes the image, the perception that they are trying to create, weather that be on a piece of paper, or carved in wood. Or the art work may be something, say, drawn into the sand in front of me. Art is a person’s perception, is a person’s way of telling a story.

My eyes scan the angel one more time before moving back over the ocean before me. I have always enjoyed the sound of the waves. It always brought a certain type of comfort to me, a comfort that nothing else could give me. Closing my eyes I let the sound of the soothing waves consume me. I listened to the way they crashed onto the shore, the way they were drawn back out into the ocean, and then back again. Slowly, without realising it, my breath slowed to match the pace of the elegant waves. As the salty liquid was drawn away, oxygen would be sucked into my lungs, filling the, satisfying them, then the waves would hit the shore, and then my breath would be released back into my surroundings. It was like we were one. The ocean and me.

"It's a bit dark for artwork is it not?" A deep voice cuts through my thoughts, my breathing breaking the routine that it had formed. I felt like a bucket of cold water had been chucked over me, pulling me suddenly and not too gentle away from my wandering mind. Turning slightly, I move my gaze over to where the voice had come from. I wasn’t sure who I was expecting to see, maybe another person like me- like me? What on earth did I mean like me? Shaking my head to rid myself of the awkward thought I study the man who stood in front of me.

He was reasonably tall, or maybe it was just because I was sitting down, I was not too sure. Hair almost as dark as a ravens wing was in a mess on his head. His fringe was slightly brushed to the side, revealing to differently shaped eyes to the normal person you would see around the district. He looked strong. Muscles running around his arms and legs, a career, I sigh to myself before dragging my gaze back to my angel. Training to be ready to fight for his life. Training to die.

That’s when I process his question. Was it too dark to be doing artwork? Pffft no. It was never too dark to tell a story. I’m about to tell the boy this, when he interrupts me, his body tensing. "Who goes there?" he asks, his voice loud, demanding. I stare at him, surprised. Was he insane? No one was there. I turn to look at the place that had caught his attention, and I feel amusement begin to form deep down in my stomach.

“No one’s there, buddy.” I say, trying to hold back the laughter that threatens to escape my lips. My body began to shake, and I was glad that the darkness concealed the slight moment of my shoulders as I laugh silently

"Calm your tits; I'm not here to kill you. At least not now," The soft sound of a low voice slid towards us, and my laughing dissolve immediately. Huh. So there had been someone there after all. A girl stepped into view; she was playing with something on her shoulder before turning her full attention to me and the boy. "I'm just out for a midnight swim. If that's okay, Mister Jittery; I mean, I wouldn't want to scare you," her voice is thick with sarcasm as the last words slip from her lips. I try not to cringe at her tone.

“Calm your tits?” I asked, foreigning an expression of confusion. “Ummm sorry to burst your bubble, but I am pretty sure that he doesn’t’ have tits… but-“ my voice cuts off, as I bring my speech to a halt. I was pretty sure what I was about to say next might have been a tad inappropriate, so I keep my mouth closed. My eyes scan over the two people who stood before me. A small smile tugging at the edge of my lips. “Well aren’t we just a lively bunch,” my voice is light as I look between us, my smile stretching across my face.