When They Washed Up

When They washed up it was nighttime. The sea was low and grey and tender around the rocks. Nobody saw Them wash up--there was nobody to see anything at all. They waited for a long time by Themselves on the hard dark sand. They could be calm, at least, with nothing to offer Themselves to. Time faded in and out until the sun came up, and its light pulled on Them. It grabbed and lifted Them for the hungry wind to find. The wind tore at all the tender pieces that fluttered loose enough for it to pry up, but in Their empty forms was a strength, a strength of fibers yet to fall away and mature into the land. The wind’s teeth were too soft on that morning, but with time They would grow tender and ready, and it knew that.

When They washed up They did not know it would take weeks to become questions. They did not know how many times the water’s foam edge would push Them just a little further, just a little more, just a nudge for every day They threatened to fall into the earth, just a little further. At first it was good to be left alone. It was quiet and the passing time was sweet and needed, but of course that softness could not last. At night the cold soaked into Them, and each morning the sunrise began to pull the chill away and unravel Them with it. If it only stayed cold, They could wait as long as They pleased. Or if it only stayed warm, then They could go away. But there was no option except to let the tug-of-war go on and so it did, until She came.

When They washed up She was awake, not as far away as She thought. She did not know distance like They did. Where She went could never be far from where She started, but that was alright. It had never been a secret that She was easy to dissolve, too softly molded for far-away places. In exchange, She helped herself to an excess of faraway thoughts. This drew Her mind often to the water, the place where far-away might be just over the horizon, and when Her body was capable She followed. That is how She came to know Them, on a day when everything was almost okay, on a day when the sun couldn’t get through the haze. Everything was easier on days like that, when the sea merged with the air and padded the sky.

When They washed up, far-away was deciding to come to Her. She could feel it, and She knew that soon the real people would be able to smell the distance on Her. She had seen how the solid can detect the gossamer. She draped Her frame each morning in layers of real things so they could not see through Her. She drifted away more and farther and that is how she found Them. She thought She’d found a place to rest but They were already there, already resting. She was lucky that They wanted company. They were lucky that She wanted to talk. She thought briefly to be afraid of Them, but if She feared Their state, She must fear Her own, and the time for that had gone. They held questions She needed not to answer but to understand, and so she lent Herself to the sea and the hungry wind in exchange for Their listening.

When They washed up it seemed that Their time to know another had long since been washed away. When She found Them, weeks after the land accepted Their arrival, They had even less right to introduce Themselves. Still, She let herself crumble down beside Them, each grain of Her an idea or a question and from each of Their fibers she extracted the same. All that they each held twisted together, and their combined mass sunk so deep within Her that for so long--maybe hours but She thought it could have been days--She could not lift Her sea-glass self. She thought perhaps the tide would slide over all the empty sand and pull Her apart and wash every bit clean and salty.

When They washed up companionship was a silly thing to hope to find in the biting wind and the crystal sky; the salt air that only wants to empty you out and fill you with cold clear nothing, a glassy copy of itself. But She arrived and She offered as much as She took from Them, perhaps more. She made Them real--without Her, They were part only of the physical, the fickle material world that gives us so easily away to decay. But when She held Their image, however faded within Her own foggy reality, it fell into Her energy and washed over the solid once again. She shared Her space in the universe with Them, and in return They taught Her how to survive outside of it. They taught Her what it is to be forgotten after a time by others, but first by herself. They taught Her and She listened because her soft cold bones knew it would matter soon. It would matter soon, but before then She had more quiet to fill with weak and shaking moments.

When They washed up She thought She was still a little closer to solid. Once She found Them the walls around Her began to slide and melt and She knew the real people could see the pieces of Her falling away to dust on the ground. She knew that those whole and strong people recognized Her walks and She knew they wanted to lay Her down and hold Her still and try to push the thick sludgy reality back into Her veins so they could hold her a little longer. She knew how waiting for beyond would damage Her aching joints and burning skin and so she ran to meet it and She knew where to find it: down on the water’s lip, down there with Them. It was nearly done consuming Them. She saw each day the pieces it had chewed away; beyond would soon be hungry again and She would feed it now.

Her peaceful bed beside Them, a bassinet dug quietly into the sand, stood now with a new and heavy depth and promised still to hold Her away from the real as it had done so many times, the waves of Her conversations with Them shaking through. Now as She fell, a quiet shining pool, into the shoreline’s soft and open palm, She was silent. There were no more questions and, anyway, She was sure the wind would carry away any words She could coax up her throat if she opened her mouth. The eager sea was coming in and for a moment She was afraid to let it into her hair, her flesh, her bones. She had learned from Them about the chill it carried but She remembered too how it welcomed Them and how it would welcome Her as well. They were sinking into the sand but She could reach Her hand just barely to them. They were not gone, only smooth and dry now in the sun. In Their cracks and valleys She felt the soft whisper of time and it felt Her and knew She was ready. She let it in and She let herself out into the shining day and with Her went the last of Them, the image only she found when They washed up.

Author's Note

Please read for content, not grammar--all grammar weirdness is completely intentional.

Reviews

[Mr. Snipes]

Very good. Very enigmatic, but good nonetheless. The fact that the writing and grammar are good is affecting the rating a lot, since the identities of Them and Her don't make any sense. Maybe I'm just an untrained reader and can't tell what's what when reading a work so powerful. Thanks for writing.