The Fall

The girl in the yellow dress was walking on the stone guard rail. She shouldn’t do that. Six, maybe seven, but she doesn’t know any better. It was a long drop. The surf crashed foamy furrows against old stone. Somebody should tell her to get off. She fell, a daffodil swirling to the black waters below. Nobody saw, or it was everyone was paralyzed. Dimitri saw. Dimitri acted. He flung himself from the tourist crowd and straightened his body like a board. The water was cold, but not as cold as the dread that gripped his heart as he thrashed about, seeking, seeking. Crude zephyrs sent rain sharp fists of brine into his face. The tide tugged at his legs with increasing insistence. It was surface and duck, surface and duck. Eternity visited a minute. His hand brushed a thin thigh, convulsed. Dimitri burst from the surface, pearls of water arcing above his triumphant yell. The girl is scared. She beat against his head, shook like a flower in high wind. Shh, he said, drowning. Breathe. Breathe! Someone had climbed down, thrown a lifesaver. It floated, pitiful and white against the sheer magnitude of nature. He pulled her icy arms around his neck. He barked like a dog. I am a little dog, and I am taking you for a swim. Now be still, girl! He barked again. She strangled him, but it was not so bad. The wave pulled them close, threatening to beat them against the cliff face. Then, a tug. That tug he knew, from his island youth. It spells death. He fought the ocean, gathering the girl in his arms, legs kicking. He tore her arms brutally from his neck. He hurled her onto the thin ring of salvation, the action pushing him in and away. The sky became a hole in his vision, an impossible distance. A pale blur in the peripheral, the girl seizes the lifesaver. She is saved. He has seen. The waters get what they want. A soul.
He gives his for hers.
A smile fills his lung with the ocean.

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4 responses to “The Fall

  1. As a writer, you’re happy to find small gems in all that jumble of words. So I’m proud of that particular one, but it is also a source of perplexity. I’m kind of obsessed with where ideas come from. Most of my twitters take me less than a minute to do… I just think of an opening line or a subject and let my my fingers pour the words out. You’ve read many of the classics, and other great talents, and most of the time, you get the idea that writing is like building a house, a lot of hard work. It suggests ideas are calculated, and given heavy consideration. I’m not saying it’s not, but I believe in 99% inspiration 1% perspiration. I guess it’s just in the script, how and why people do one thing or another.

  2. Where your ideas come from in particular, or in general?

    For me it’s the opposite. Words flow feverishly when a particular thought strikes me or when I see a person who sparks a particular thought. I simply must get hold of some writing material and let loose when that happens and 140 characters are usually less 🙂

    But yes, it is rather intimidating when you think of the ‘great’ works and the minds that got busy at creating those worlds. Maybe their writing fevers simply lasted a tad longer hmm?

  3. Pretty much what you said. A thought that strikes. Just things that happen or completely random brain noise.I have too much of these, hence the nutso twitter posts.

    I think it’s the information generation… We’ve become so used to bite size information that our attention span has shrunk to fit. On the computer I have more patience for flash fiction than I do longer stories… but there is nothing like the heft of a good ol’ novel in them hands.

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