Author: Landen Shuey
A world of sea, a conscious concoction of saline aquatics that plagues the mind consistent as a fly. He spoke not of truths, of facades, nor of neutralities, he spoke of what was necessary.
“Turtles.” the boy stated.
The parents, misunderstanding as always, interpreted such a seemingly unimportant word as nothing more than a mere pressing of one’s lips, albeit exciting.
The boy had spoken but five words in his five years of existence, each of which meaning nothing more than a small gust of dust to the parents.
The tides rolled and rashed and washed and turned as the siege was upon the unsuspecting harbor town.
The singularity and individuality of each word the boy spoke made it seem as though he spoke not of words but of worlds, farther and fewer from the limited expanses of our own.
The words in question seemingly so insignificant, lost upon the sea, the parents forgetting the patterns of pattern and pertinence.
Why does the boy speak of such small endearment, moreover why does he speak in such an ordinary tone thus deceiving the eyes of the beholder?
The tides continued to roll as the turtles were swept from the crawean ocean beds and rocks.
The turtles, prepared as they were lifted beyond the shadows of doubt cast by the rays of the world upon the briny depths.
The tides swept and cooked and cleaned the ports until there was nothing left but the moss-green backs of the monsters who would so silently dawn horror upon the quaint village.
A world he wanted to live in, no, a world he wanted to see, from the controllable standpoint, unavoidable as it may be, he stood in behest of what he so clearly predicted.
The boy sat silently as he observed the raid of schnell slowpokes, slowly encroaching upon what was soon to be a mere afterthought of violins.
The turtles… they whispered as they sooned upon the boy, stating the same phrase thrice over each.
“We hear, we see, we smell, we feel, we watch, and we will do what we will.”
It was as though any army were marching, feeding themselves placebo in the form of vernacular, it was unsettling to say the most.
The boy remained silent as the screams of those torn apart from themselves wandered about within confined spaces.
The town was remembered not for the forgetfulness of the parents who ignored their prophet, but for the tragedy that misshapen upon the peculiar place in the universe.
One line. One sentence. One word. One syllable. One consonant. One vowel. One period. One year. One age. One era. One eon. One existence.
The terms used both for measuring our demise and our rise, they remain the constant in the equation that is life.
The town was remembered for their demise, not their rise. And remembered by the sad stylings of a stiletto violin or two.
And a symphony was to soon begin.